Excerpt: Honest

Last night was the first time that I have heard her snore in years. Some people would say that my wife has trouble sleeping. I think that it is far more accurate to say that I possess a gift for it. If sleeping was an Olympic sport, there would be three beds on the medal stand. And I would be right on top, taking the gold ahead of a dead hooker and a guy in a coma–but not necessarily in that order. Just as I am about to accept a congratulatory kiss from a young and busty blonde, I feel an unpleasant sting across my right cheek.

“Wake up, Walter!”

“I'm awake,” I mumble.

Apparently, my wife has been working on her backhand. I wonder if tennis is an Olympic sport? I cautiously open my eyes. I can't believe I traded in those perfect double-d tits for these saggy bags that look like they would be more at home on Mick Jagger's face than on my wife's chest. I decide to risk it and close my eyes long enough to see about getting that gold medal kiss. Bad idea.

“We're going to be late if you don't get your worthless butt out of bed! Do you even remember what today is?”

“Of course I remember!” I have no idea. This seems to be happening a lot lately.

Hoping to appease the snarling beast, I sit up and grab my glasses from the nightstand. No reason for both my memory and my vision to be fuzzy. I still cannot bring myself to get out of bed. I slide the glasses onto my face, careful not to poke myself in the eye. I can now see my wife clearly—clearly throwing me that concerned look she gives me when she knows that I am lying.

“Honest?” she asks.

“Honest.”