when I caught you jerking off last week with the chips?” Jane’s face goes from its earlier contortion—the appropriated curiosity and apprehension and pity lifted from the Native Americans—and morphs into flat-out disgust. “Are you saying this is more embarrassing than that?”
A week ago Tuesday: Coffen had been minding his own tawdry business on the Internet—wife and kids sleeping the night away. He was another half-drunken, lonely, sad, suburban father sitting in his study, inappropriately conducting fevered searches re the shaving habits of certain coeds who were okay with strangers witnessing the upkeep of their nether regions. Coffen gawked and Googled and swigged vodka on the rocks from a sweating tumbler and munched nacho cheese Doritos, and a rhythm developed between these motions—gawking, Googling, slurping, munching. It was the vodka that presented the first problem piece of the puzzle. See, in his haste and enthusiasm Coffen wasn’t paying attention to the condensation from the glass, how it made his fingers moist, how with the next clumsy dip of his hand into the Doritos bag, the orange dust plastered itself to it. Under normal circumstances, he would have identified the vibrant sticking orange dust and properly cleaned it off, but he wasn’t exactly in his right mind, a combustion slowly stoking in his body, and as the scene built to its dejected ending, he dropped his pants and latched his phallus in his fist and the vibrant, gummy orange dust transferred and stuck to it like fluorescent sawdust.
Meanwhile, Jane, thirsty, awakened, and wondering why Coffen hadn’t come to bed, burst into his office and observed the scene for herself—Bob yanking sadly, his prick bright orange.
Shame rained on him immediately. Coffen thought: Two people can know each other so well and yet there are always new ways to disappoint your partner, disappoint yourself.
He quickly pulled up his pants and pushed his fluorescent orange penis inside.
“Those chips are supposed to be for the kids,” Jane said, and walked out.
Now Bob says, “It’s a different kind of embarrassing, but I’ll tell you if that’s what you want.” Coffen tells her another pared-down version of the truth, one that contains more of the crucial plot points than the first iteration he’d shared, yet it still isn’t entirely true: In this new remix, Coffen and Schumann were having a good-humored competition, a couple blokes fooling around on their way home, horseplay between subdivision friends that unfortunately didn’t end the way either had hoped or expected or wanted.
“Why would you agree to race a car on a bicycle?” she asks with the same judgmental look she’d given Bob after seeing him fluorescent orange. It’s as though he’s covered in the artificial dust as they sit in the café.
“Boys will be boys,” Bob says.
“Your gender is ridiculous.”
“Yes, we are.”
“But I’m glad you’re okay.”
It’s the closest thing to affection she’s said to him lately, and it makes Bob happy to hear her express gladness that he’s all right. (Last night, after returning from the ER, Jane seemed like the whole episode was inconvenient, didn’t express any worry for Bob at all.) He’ll take what he can get, stares down at the lacquered King Kong, frozen there, stuck in mid-swat. “Tell me about your morning tread. Are you all ready to go for the world record? Does Gotthorm think you’re ready?”
“Well, that’s actually what I want to talk with you about,” she says.
Gotthorm is her water-treading coach. He played goalie on the Norwegian water polo team in the 1984 Olympics, and to see him today, you’d think he could still leap in the pool and tussle with the youngsters. Or hop over to the next fjord and burn and steal whatever tickles his plundering fancy.
Gotthorm always stands by the pool in only his red Speedo, encouraging Jane, his cock and balls like assistant coaches poking through the flimsy suit. Coffen himself can’t help but stare at Gotthorm’s bulge on the days he stops by Jane’s training sessions to show his support. It’s not the size of the bulge. No obscene mound distends the Speedo. It’s the nakedness, the proximity of the bulge. How from Jane’s vantage point in the pool, she has to stare up at it for hours at a time, treading water there—a bulge on a pedestal, if you will. In fact, Coffen sometimes can’t help but assume the worst: Gotthorm, Jane, and his bulge, the three of them someday riding off into the sunset together.
“Talk to me about what?” Bob asks, slurping his coffee.
“We think that maybe