“Mmm,” Patnixon purred as Henrykissinger
unlocked his lips from hers.
“Are you ready for the consent form?”
Henrykissinger said, reaching for his iPhone18.
“Mm-hmm.” Patnixon slid her thumb down her
perspiring cleavage and pressed it onto the fingerprint box of the consent form
displayed on the screen. The box turned green and closed. Henrykissinger
smiled. Patnixon smiled. A new form popped up on the screen. A breathalyzer
test.
Henrykissinger opened the drawer of his side
table and pulled out a long tube with a small box at the end. He attached the
box to the miniport of the iPhone. “Blow,” he said, inserting the tube in
Patnixon’s mouth. Patnixon’s cheeks ballooned like a trumpet player’s. They
watched. The screen turned orange. Calibration recertification overdue.
Patnixon frowned. Henrykissinger frowned.
“You have the MobileCondoms app?” Patnixon
said. Henrykissinger nodded. “Order a gross of condoms. The delivery technician
has a breathalyzer we can use.”
“I already have two grosses.” Henrykissinger
took a deep breath, just like a prisoner would do back when they used the gas
chamber, right before they released the gas.
“Oh?” Patnixon said. “You told the dating
coach we were in an impending exclusory courting association.”
“They’re really old, expired probably. I
should order new ones, you know, for us,” Henrykissinger said, tapping the
MobileCondoms icon. “What the hell, I’ll order another two gross. We’ll use
them, right?” Henrykissinger smiled an unconvincing smile.
Patnixon frowned. “Let’s check the
expiration dates,” she said. “The Red Meadows Homeless Shelter is always
looking for condom donations, if they’re not too old.”
“Sure,” Henrykissinger said, getting up
from the couch. “I’ll be right back.”
Patnixon sat up and grabbed the bottle of Jim
Beam mango-peach flavored bourbon from the coffee table. She took a deep breath
and chugged down a third of the bottle.
A couple of minutes later the doorbell rang.
Henrykissinger rushed out with two boxes of condoms in his hand, which he held
behind his back as he opened the door to the MobileCondoms delivery technician.
Patnixon took another slug from the bottle
and waved to the delivery technician. “I
need the breathalyzer.”
Andrew Hogan has published more than ninety
works of fiction in the Sandscript, OASIS Journal (1st Prize, Fiction 2014),The
Legendary, Widespread Fear of Monkeys, Hobo Pancakes, Twisted Dreams, Long
Story Short, The Lorelei Signal, Silver Blade, Thick Jam, Copperfield Review,
Fabula Argentea, The Blue Guitar Magazine, Shalla Magazine, Defenestration,
Mobius, Grim Corps, Coming Around Again Anthology, Former People, Thrice,
Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Black Market Lit, Paragraph Line, Subtopian
Magazine, Pine+Basil, Festival Writer: Unpublishable, Fiction on the Web.
Tags:
Short Fiction