Why don't you follow the direction of your dick slipped out after she caught him avoiding the earmarked Savage Love page in the Reader. She then questioned when he always passed the section over and didn't enjoy reading the sexually punned classifieds(Thicker than a snickers?) with her. He avoided the question and studied the few customers in the empty coffee. He said thank you to the walking cliché waitress, with her Morton Salt girl tattoo on her left arm, skinny jeans and her magnified eyeballs behind her Harry Caray frames, as if trekked down to Costa Rica for the coffee beans herself. She left him sitting there, in the run down coffee in Albany Park. She walked down Kimball to the Brown Line and rode it downtown, not getting off. She looked at the river and into the office building windows, with the large stacks of papers and extra suits and ties hanging behind doors. She got off at Library and made way to Michigan and walked to Millennium Park. She lay in the grass and watched pigeons fly above, and through the grid it looked as if they were trapped. She lay for hours. When the buildings' windows began telling her messages, she walked to the train and headed home. When she arrived at their apartments, the windows were left open and the lights were off. She walked to their room. The sheets were loose and ruffled. There were knees imprints, deep as canyons on his side of the bed and hand imprints near the indention on her side of the bed. She thought to herself that he must have shellacked the hell out that waitress' too perfect ass. She put her knees in the indents and held the sheets up to her nose. She then went to the cam cord behind his kickball league championship trophy and turned on the TV. She went back to bed, clicked the remote, pulled the covers over her and unzipped her jeans.