Benedict went out
with Steinbeck’s wife
and Steinbeck (no not

that Steinbeck, some
other, less know, not
a writer, but a driver)

didn’t know, or if he
did he didn’t show as
if he did. The small hotel

with the hot water tap
running cold, the cold
running hot, the gas

fire blazing like some
dragon in a Disney
cartoon. Steinbeck’s

wife lay on the bed,
her arms outstretched,
her small ***** like

abandoned babes.
Aren’t you coming in
bed? She asked. Sure

I am, Benedict said, just
washing my hands,
about to brush my teeth.

The mirror in the narrow
bathroom was steamed
up, except where his hand

had made a clearing.
He stared at his face,
showed his teeth. Job

done. He spat out wasted
paste. Come on in Honey,
she said, as he climbed into

bed **** naked, his pecker
flopping like a dead goose’s
neck. She killed the lights.

The room flashed on and off
with neon lights from across
the way. Her features shone

up and then went out like
some ancient ghost. She
handled his pecker, her grip

about the base. He put his
hands on her ****, felt flesh,
moved fingers crablike to

where the buttocks met,
the thin crack.  She quickly
manhandled the pecker

into life, stiffened its resolve,
moved into place. That’s nice,
she said, placing fingers on

his back, moving him down.
Benedict seeing her features
flash up and out, thought of

Steinbeck driving his truck,
while he the apprentice was
having his wife, getting the ****.