The Animator

Howard sits at the kitchen table, spooning bland oatmeal while his wife darts around like she’s running a damn marathon. She’s rattling off plans at a mile a minute, voice buzzing in his ears like static, but his eyes never leave the empty chair across from him. He nods when she finally stops, grabs his briefcase, dumps the trash, and struggles with his car door before pulling away with the radio hissing nothing but dead air. At the office he keeps seeing that plastic chest from the dumpster, and the second he clocks out he doubles back, fights the damn mannequin into the backseat, and hauls it home. Later he’s picking at dinner while she keeps yapping, oblivious. Soon as the bathroom door clicks shut he bolts outside, drags the mannequin to the spare room, and shoves it in the closet like stolen loot. Hours later, wife asleep, he slips out, flips on the lamp, pulls the mannequin onto the bed. Shirt off, briefs straining, he runs his palms over the smooth chest, grinds against it, and leans in for a kiss. When his eyes open the plastic has turned warm, soft, and Elliot Finn is kissing him back, mouth hungry and real.