- Virgil Hervey

Harry Kresge had known Fred Fish for years. Fred is one of those types who dresses in that drab shade of gray that matches his personality, and sometimes even seems to match the tone of his skin. "Harry, I need some advice, ya got a minute?" "Sure, what's up?" Kresge had been fidgeting in his chair. Now he readied himself to fight dozing off. "I'm having an affair," Fred blurted, almost embarrassed, but not quite - perhaps a bit too proud of himself to be ashamed. Wide awake now, Harry suppressed a smile. "I don't know how this happened. I've known this woman for a couple years. We play in the community orchestra together. There was never anything between us. Then one day I was giving her a lift after rehearsal and we both got horny, so I pulled over and we did it in the back seat of my car." Now Harry found him self fighting to suppress a laugh. He let out a long low whistle, instead. "Actually, I've been having problems with my wife for a long time. We have a good relationship, socially that is, but sex is another matter. She wants me to high-cock her for two hours straight, but I usually come right away. Whenever we fight, she makes sure to bring that up. She screams at me that no other woman would want me; that I'd never be any good to another woman. Frankly, with that attitude, I don't think she would ever suspect that I'm having an affair." Kresge knew Fred's wife. He wondered about that "good social relationship" stuff. He remembered how she had once belittled Fred in front of Harry and one of Fred's other friends. "When I met Fred, he was a bum on the street, a real nothing," she had said. "I picked him up and made him into something." She was too cunning not to catch on. And when she did, she would take him to the proverbial cleaners. "Don't get caught!" was the best advice Harry could give him. Men think with their dicks. Anything else would have been superfluous. "It's so different with my little cellist. We rent a motel room and I howl like a dog. In two hours I'm ready to go again. I feel so free. I'm thinking of leaving my wife." Suddenly Harry understood why his counsel was being sought. Something was missing that Fred hadn't had the common sense or intestinal fortitude to address on his own. He needed Harry to bring it up. "Has this woman ever told you how she feels about you?" Harry asked. There was no response. "Well, maybe you and the cellist should have a talk about the emotional side of your relationship, before you make up your mind to chuck it all." Harry was trying to be tactful. He didn't want to upset him with too strong a dose of reality. Not at the moment, anyway. As they talked, Fred adjusted the light in front of Harry's chair; arranged his tools on a little round tray off to the side; drew Novocaine through a long needle into a syringe. When they were through talking, he would be performing a root canal on one of the last real teeth Harry still had on the bottom left, way in the back. (c) 2000 Virgil Hervey

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