A few more paragraphs from this earlier thing:

Twenty minutes later, he tiptoes past his still sleeping wife, brown penny loafers in one hand, and a blown kiss slipping off the other. Fred�s daily routine then carries him to the brink of his children�s room, still young enough (thank God) to share just the one. Sticking his peppered and receding-haired scalp into the scant space afforded by the door before the telltale squeak, Fred gazes benevolently on what, for him, was the product of the best three years of his life, and, for his wife, was the end result of three tortured years of constant trips to the doctor, countless obscure methods, a multitude of unpronounceable medications, timed ovulations, and sex by God, nearly every day! Fred blows each of his tow-headed children a well-aimed kiss that brushes lightly off of their foreheads, uttering the same silent prayer (please don�t die today) that he does everyday, �God bless you and keep you.� The repetitious statement is a carryover from his childhood, when his mom would think she was sneaking into his room at night, leaving only the light in the hallway on to guide her way. She would stealthily slip into the room, dexterously navigate around and over his toys, and then slowly lean over his bed, kissing his forehead and whispering her incantation (please don�t die tomorrow), �God bless you and keep you.� She would then do the whole ritual in reverse, clicking the door behind her in near silence. Fred never really knew what �God keep you� meant, but, he knew that his mom never knew that he was awake every night, and, he knew that lightly breathed words always made him feel safe. Shaking the memory from his head, Fred pulls his head out of the gap in the door with a smile and tiptoes down the hall, too late to notice his two children secretly look to each other out of one cautiously opened eye each and smile silently.

A slice of toast and the bottom half of a diet shake, the top of which was claimed by the kitchen sink (disgusting fucking swill), later Fred pulls out of his driveway to face the long commute to work. Half way down the block, Fred slams to a halt and retraces his steps in reverse, intent on putting out the (garbage cans, damnit!) garbage like he promised his wife he would. (catch Hell if I forget. Won�t never ever see Monday Night Football if I keep fucking this up). His task completed Fred resumes his journey, swearing at himself over his lost five minutes, and, calculating the number of cars that must already be swarming into his vacated space on the freeway like so many vultures.

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