Come On Grandpa- Fuck Me- -

He pulled out a yellowed sheet of paper. "Listen to this. She wrote it for my fortieth birthday. It’s a poem called 'Ode to My Husband's Snoring.'"

Frank led her to the garage, past the dusty elliptical machine, to a corner she’d always assumed was for spiders. He pulled a canvas tarp off two gleaming things: vintage bicycles. A cherry-red Schwinn and a sky-blue Raleigh. Come on grandpa- fuck me-

"Come on, grandpa," Maya said, offering her hand. He pulled out a yellowed sheet of paper

And last week, when the TV froze on a spinning wheel of doom, Maya threw her hands up. "It's broken!" It’s a poem called 'Ode to My Husband's Snoring

Frank leaned forward, skeptical. Then Lucy started shoving chocolates in her mouth, down her shirt, up her hat. Frank let out a snort. Then a chuckle. Then a full-bellied laugh that shook the sofa cushions.

Frank grunted. "In my day, you had three channels. You wanted to change the show, you got up, walked across the room, and turned a dial. Click-click-click. Sounded like a satisfied beetle. That was entertainment."