My husband is on top of me. The bed creaks. My hands are on his back, where I occasionally give him an encouraging pat, hoping this might spur him on to make the session as brief as possible.
The steel frame of the headboard is banging against the wall. I just hope the neighbors do not suffer from it.
My smartphone is on the bedside cabinet close to my face, and I watch its screen light up.
“Hello, my most intimate friend,” I whisper softly.
Taking one hand from my husband’s back, I pick it up. My social network needs me, and I can’t stand being the last to know the novelties from my friends! I quickly scroll through the newly uploaded pictures, and try to suppress a chuckle when I see some friends in a silly pose at a party.
Continuing to succumb to the urges of my husband, who is still trying to smother our bed, I find it hard to imagine that his sounds are associated with pleasure, but hey, what do I know. Involuntarily, my free hand texts the appropriate words to those online, who cannot wait till morning, while tapping rhythmically on my husband’s back.
Suddenly the bed stops moving. No more banging or cracking, no more heavy breathing, no squeaks. My husband rises from the pillow with his wrinkled face unusually close to mine.
Although I still try to hide my phone and muffle its sounds, I know it’s too late.
“This was the last time.” he says calmly. “Give it to me, now.”
I meekly hand over the phone to him, while he gets out of bed and starts to get dressed. In an idle attempt to promise to behave from now on, I beg for mercy, but my husband just shrugs.
I have a last glimpse of my cherished phone, just before it disintegrates below his boot.