Introduction: Good Life

Elmer

            Knock, knock.

            I looked up from my laptop upon hearing that sound. It was a familiar sound: the sound of someone coming home. Or should I say some PEOPLE coming home? The house seemed to get a lot more crowded with the inclusion of my- I mean, OUR first kid. He's a pesky little fucker, but we all love him for it. Children. Gotta love 'em; they're the prime example of the fruits of the next generation, the gift of a future that adults like me will never get to witness. Ah, goddammit. What was I saying? Mental note to self: Add a doorbell to the house so people don't have to lay waste to the door in an attempt to get the homeowner's attention...

            Oh, right. Anyway, after looking up from my laptop, I arose from the table and headed out of my office and downstairs to the first floor of my house. Within several seconds, I reached the front door, which was still being knocked on as if the knocker's life depended on it (oh, spare him. He's a freakin' KID, for Chrissake). Fine, fine. I'll take it easy. He IS my son, after all (so I assume that you'll pretty much beat the shit outta every other kid that knocks on your door like a maniac?), and NO, saying that does NOT make me an avid child hater, but that I love my son, and certainly not in THAT way. You know what I meant (OK, OK. Jesus, Christ, I was just kidding. Oh, and did you know you just wasted an entire paragraph talking about improper phrasing? The audience wants to hear about your STORY, not your fucking thought process). YOU STARTED- Ah, never mind. Moving on.

           Anyway, where were we before we got so rudely interrupted (I'm right here, buddy)? And as for you, shut up. Nobody cares about what you have to say (OK, fine, fine. I'll shut up. For now). Thank you. Oh, right. We were talking about what happened when I was at the door. So when I opened the door, I saw a familiar, yet comforting sight: My wife, standing beside my son, holding hands. My son is wearing a blue t-shirt with a drawing of a monster truck on it (along with a pair of gray cargo shorts), whereas my beloved has donned a red-checkered shirt and a pair of dark blue jeans that really, really shows off her ass (Well, that was descriptive. You REALLY don't know the meaning of “too much information”, do you?). Oh, and to answer your question, fuck you. This is MY wife. My wife, MY compliment. Asshole.

            “DADDY!” my son screamed, throwing his tiny arms around my waist. I slightly recoiled at the sudden scream, but still put my arms around the little guy nonetheless.

“Hey, kiddo,” I said. “So, how was your day?”

“I missed you, daddy.” he replied in a jovial tone. Eh, didn't really answer my question, but I'll take it.

“He's a tough little guy, Elm. I mean sure, he might've cried a few hundred buckets of tears when I left him at school, but when I picked him up he seemed to have had a pretty good time,” my wife interjected. I smiled. Her voice can have that impact on me sometimes. Even after all these years, I'm still overwhelmed by her sultry voice, and not to mention her kind, understanding personality.

“That's good to know. You know, this calls for a little celebration,” I said.

“That's a great idea. What do you have in mind?” my wife inquired. I took a while to consider our possibilities.

“What about the new burger joint down the street? Besides the burgers, I've heard that they make a mean taco salad,” I suggested.

“TACOS!” my son suddenly shrieked. I recoiled at the earsplitting sound, again. I'm not a fan of loud, sudden noises, which is rather unfortunate considering that my occupation involves a LOT of loud shit. After recovering from the debilitating shout, I regained my ability to speak.

“Yes, boy. Whaddaya think? Wanna go to the- Hold on, what's the name of the burger place again?” I asked my wife. My memory was terrible, to say the least (which was one of the main reasons behind my wife's existence, speaking of which).

“Hank Sr's?” My wife replied.

“Right, right. It's either Hank Sr's or Cocina Me- Wait, never mind. We went to Cocina Mexicana just last week. Oh well, Hank Sr's it is, then,” I decided.

“I want tacos,” my son complained. I silently praised God for making the kid speak in a voice that doesn't shatter my eardrums for the first time this evening. Alas, now I had to comfort him. On the bright side, he wasn't on the verge of tears. At least not yet.

“Hey, c'mon now. Hank Sr's makes really good tacos, too. Besides, you'll love the burgers there, I promise,” my wife told my son, placing her hands on his little shoulders. I was touched; she had always been better at consoling kids than I was. Ironically, both our jobs didn't require much sympathy, and yet when it came to kids, you'd think that she'd been a babysitter her whole life.

“OK,” my son replied curtly. He looked devastated, which was completely understandable, considering the fact that Cocina Mexicana was one of his favorite restaurants, even toppling burger joints and Italian food. Oh, and don't forget pizza (both Italian and American).

“Tell you what: next time we can go to Cocina Mexicana, OK? I'm sure this'll be a nice change of pace for you,” my wife continued.

“OK, mommy.” my son said, with a slightly less devastated look on his face. Well, holy shit. This went much better than I had expected; I was expecting the kid to repeatedly stomp the ground screaming “BUT I WANT TACOS!” over and over until he got his way, but apparently children (or maybe just this particular child, at least) are a lot more sensible than I had ever hoped to imagine.

            “OK, then. Both of you, take a bath, change your clothes (hold on, aren't those two sentences redundant when used with each othe- Never mind, just forget I said that). While you do that, Mommy will need to get a few things before we leave. C'mon, no time to waste!” my wife ordered.

“Mind if you join me for the bath, babe?” I asked with a naughty look on my face (some things never change, huh? Oh, and by the way, fix your “naughty look” so it doesn't look like a fucking rape-face, yeah?).

“Sure thing, hon. Just go on first; I'll be with you in a sec,” my wife replied nonchalantly.

“Can I take a bath with mommy, daddy?” my son asked.

“Um, sure thing, son. Just give your parents a little time to, uh, take a bath first, OK?” I responded (if only he knew, Elm. If only he knew).

“OK, daddy,” he said.

“Thanks, son.” I said, secretly harboring a sense of sympathy for the boy, mainly due to the fact that I was about to get frisky with his mother within several minutes' time (at least he doesn't know...)

            And with that, I made my way to the upstairs bathroom, which was conveniently located near my office and bedroom. I took a towel from my bedroom cupboard and strolled over to the bathroom, where I heard the sound of running water. When I opened the bathroom door, I saw the nude figure of my beloved standing inside the shower, water running all over her slender body. Upon hearing the door opening, she quickly turned to look at me.

“I thought that I was supposed to wait for YOU,” I protested.

“Hey, can I help it if I'm faster than you are?” she shot back.

“Fair enough.” I admitted. I placed my towel on the bathroom table, stripped off my clothes, and joined my wife in the shower. “I love you,” I said as I ran my hands around her waist.

“Hey, time's up, amigo. Stop touching me.” my wife replied harshly, pushing me back.

“Wait, what?” I staggered back several steps, taken aback by my wife's sudden shift in attitude.

“I SAID-”