Hiding

I’m not supposed to be here. So I’m hiding behind the bed, below the window. I am a large grown man, hiding like a child. Her father and brother are here. They’ve dropped by unannounced. They don’t know that I exist, but I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t want me here if they did know. I’ve got nothing to fear from them, but I am hiding myself simply as a courtesy to her. I am a large, naked, embarrassing toy with a hangover, nipple rings, tattoos, and a retreating erection. They are walking around outside her house, gathering up some assorted things they need from the shed. Tools, wood, a can of gasoline. They don’t know that she is also here. She is hiding with me, also naked, behind the bed. We are mischievous children. My wife and her boyfriend are both out walking around in the woods or something, and the only way this could get any cooler would be if they return from their date as her father and brother discover us hiding behind the bed. There’s a nihilistic part of me that just loves that sort of calamity and dysfunction, even if I’m a casualty of it. After about five minutes, the men outside get what they need and leave. No event. No consequences.