All the spam in his in box wasn’t helping him. So much depression and desperation. I receive spam, therefore I drink, he told the bartender.

The thunder woke them and in the electric blue of the lightning, he got a good look at her and he smiled and she said, You don’t deserve me.

This is the future, he says, pointing to a tiny silver box. She studies it some and says, What’s inside? I just do as I’m told, he tells her.

He’s not sure how he feels about her overuse of Botox. She just looks apathetic to everything. Your Botox abets my male chauvinism, he says.

She stared at the empty glass and considered next steps. She hated these moments. He reached for her. In her mind, she was already far away.

He comes home and he’s wearing a new t-shirt that reads “Meat is Muscle.” She knows he’s trying to offend her, and she says, Just not yours.

He said, The booze won’t erase the pain, and she reached over and hit him with a hammer and said, It’s all relative, and he drank some more.