“Listen,’ he said to her. ‘Do you want to just shag a pony right now, get back on track?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I feel gross. I feel depressed.’
‘I feel gross, too. Let’s do it. Two gross people licking each other’s belly buttons.’
She went to the bathroom and got the jar of enabler. They took their positions on the bed.
He hoped he could. He hoped he could. He hoped he could.
He was cold and insecure, so he left his shirt on. And his socks.
They used a cream. Their used their hands. They used an object or two. During the brief strain of actual fornication they persisted with casual conversation about the next day’s errands. In the early days of their marriage, this had seemed wicked and sexy, some ironic ballast against the animal greed. Now it just seemed efficient, and the animal greed no longer appeared. Minus the wet spot at the end, and the minor glow one occasionally felt, their sex wasn’t so different from riding the subway.”
—”Cold Little Bird,” Ben Marcus