I pick up Jeremy from school at 2:50. I receive a chrome straight-razor shaving kit for Father’s Day. I have sex on birthdays, anniversaries, and that one time she went to Margarita Monday with her friends. I paste popsicle sticks together with Marissa to look like a California mission. I use words like refinance, cold front, and energy efficient. If I arrive at Jeremy’s school even a minute after 2:35, I’m in the back of the pick-up caravan and will sit for an hour. I will be irritated the rest of the evening. I spend three days putting up Christmas lights. I put my mom in an assisted-living facility that neither she nor I can afford. I feel bloated after my third beer. The California mission looks nothing like Marissa had envisioned, and she spends the rest of the night in tears. On Facebook, I see my high school girlfriend is going through her second divorce. I have more black socks than white. I receive wood-handled bar-b-que tools branded with my initials for Father’s Day. I lose to Jeremy for the first time playing one-on-one on the driveway hoop. When co-workers ask me how my 3-day weekend was I say, “Not long enough” and replay the exchange in my head the rest of day. I look forward to masturbating in the shower. I check the weather daily. I sing Disney songs with Marissa and know more words than her. I take my family to Yosemite in July. My back hurts for three days after Jeremy beats me at hoops. I have almost paid off my student loans. But not quite. I start snoring. I ignore that occasional pain in my chest. I still love my wife. I’m a vasectomy. I’m a Roth IRA. I’m a golf towel.
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Eric Scot Tryon is a writer from San Francisco. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Glimmer Train, Willow Springs, Pithead Chapel, Los Angeles Review, Fractured Lit, Monkeybicycle, Longleaf Review, Berkeley Fiction Review, and elsewhere. Eric is also the founding editor of Flash Frog. Find him on Twitter @EricScotTryon.