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"Good morning" said the black-eyed wife to the black-eyed husband and he replied the same. "Pleasant dreams?" asked man of woman and she replied oh yes.
They agreed that the dreams could be realized and entered into a phase of prelapsarian beatitude, kissing with morning mucky- mouth, immune to stresses implied by the job, impending war and economic collapse.
They taught sonnets to their parrot, walked together at midnight on hills overlooking the urban turmoil, and did away with pitiless coping mechanisms.
She sang to him in the voice of Billy Holiday: "Your cock is a non-stop cock-a-doodle doo;" he responded in the throat of Satchmo Armstrong "I feel at home in your henhouse."
All was well in Denmark and they began to consider a child. A child. The conclusive yes I said yes I will yes, the trophy of the Existential Insanathon the gob of spit in the face of an unloving God.
But the world laughed at them. The world flung shit at them. And they withstood it for a while.
But like all products guaranteed to last a lifetime; they broke.
To avoid incarceration in a rubber Motel Six, too unbrave to steal the right of the aforementioned unlover and take the brave way out, too weak to withstand the reproach for plagiarizing the Montague and Capulet kids, they reverted.
She drove home fast from work, as did he, and as the front ends of their cars collided at the mouth of the driveway, they leaned on their horns, zipped down the power windows, and screamed:
"Hello, You Fucking Cunt!"