brendan o’ brien
Dad will be back any minute, sweating like a fourth quarter quarterback and complaining about knees knocking on arthritis’s door. He will come in through the kitchen, drink from the Brita and balance against the counter to stretch hairy hamstrings.
“How’s this?” Ally asks. Ally is my girlfriend. She’s thinks we’ve invented 13 new sex positions.
I hold my chin between thumb and forefinger. Her blond hair is pigtailed, her soccer-thick thighs brown and shiny.
“Push your tits out more,” mom says without looking up from her Sudoku. “Let those puppies see some light.”
Ally gives me a look. “The way your sister would,” I say, shrugging.
“Not funny,” Ally says.
From the corner of my eye I see dad walk past the window. His few remaining hairs dance resiliently in the summer breeze, flickering like birthday cake candles that won’t go out.
“He’s coming!” I say.
“Is this absolutely necessary?”
“Hide!” my mother screams.
“Oh goddammit,” Ally says, wiggling her ass, hiking her skirt. She checks her reflection in the toaster, runs a finger across her teeth.
The back door opens with a familiar moan as my girlfriend gets into position.
Brendan O’ Brien