Congratulations Shitwrecked Mom!

After you get your kids from their gay ass soccer practice, gin still reeking on your breath, you'll start driving away, nice and steady, the way you always do, when a man, a man you'll recognize distantly, will hurl himself on the hood of your car.  You'll stop short, but he'll cling on, edging his body along the hood until he reaches your window.  Once his head is inside, he'll drag his body next to the window and cram his head inside.

"Wait, hold on," he'll shout at you.  Your head will loll a little as he leans in.  You'll wince, as if you expect a kiss, but instead he'll just say your name, grab your head with one hand and say "You're not okay."

You'll break down crying right there in the parking lot.  As the tears start flowing out of you, you'll realize who it is: it's the kid, the kid who coaches their soccer team, the one who's mom killed herself a few years after you graduated.  You read about it in the paper.  It was the only thing you knew about him before he started coaching your kids, before your husband left, before you started sleeping with bottles of prosecco and masturbating to internet porn during the day.

He'll undo your seat belt and pull you out of the car, hugging you in the parking lot.  And you, shitwrecked you, will just nuzzle up to him reflexively, no sense of place or person, just a quiet little singsong motion of body on body that will imply sex without showing anything.  It will be the only human contact you'll have had with another adult in months, maybe a year now, but it will feel good, feel right.  It'll feel so good that when he forces you to let him drive you back to your house, you won't even be angry at him by the time you arrive.  And when he insists on cooking dinner for you and your children, it'll feel natural, almost normal.

In a few weeks, after you've had a chance to sober up, you'll try to sleep with him, after he's put your kids to bed, you'll try to sleep with him.  It'll be a clumsy thing, but your hands will be steady and your hips sure as you mount him and pin him to the couch.  You'll feel his wrists, weak against your arms, as he tries to hold you back.  The only thing that will stop you is the memory of that day, of the sound of his voice and the look in his eyes as he put you in the car.

"Please, no," he'll murmur.  "Some night, definitely, but please, not like this."

You'll sit there braced above him, tits nearly falling out of your shirt.  His mouth will be watering, his eyes glistening.  You'll know that if you keep going, he won't be able to stop himself, and you'll want to keep going, but you know that he's right, that this isn't the moment, this isn't the way.

The moment above him, as you look down on him, measuring your options, looking back on the last year and a half with a sudden and terrible clarity, will stretch out for an eternity, but the reality is that it will simply occupy the space of a Target commercial.

Congratulations Shitwrecked Mom!