He sat at home, alone, looking at his late wife’s shawl draped over the armchair beside the couch and her final pill bottles scattered on the coffee table. He sniffed the mold rising from the carpet without disgust and reopened his magazine. He had a cup of steaming green tea in front of him and a bottle of lotion between his legs.

Naked women on motorcycles, naked women on racecars. Naked women pumping gas and wiping the sweat from each other’s brows and chests. They were too skinny for Harrison’s taste, but it was better than nothing. He would make this happen before he went to bed.

With his bathrobe open, his right hand rested with instinctive protection over his average dick, which cowered as best it could between his thinning thighs.

When the magazines proved useless, he tried picturing Roseanne, but it was still too difficult. He could not overcome the image of her naked body, immediately after she was declared deceased, still warm, still laced with moist secretions, the blood still possessed of some momentum; the memory of the brain’s last request.

He feared he might never have another orgasm, and the thought was mightily depressing.

An angel of relief danced beside his head, cajoling him but without breaching his periphery to show him her inspired form, her luxurious shape.

He could get it up but no matter how long he stroked, there were only faint indications of triumph. Recalling how he had championed this sport in his youth did no good. She had been taken away while there was still something in her. Soon after, they drained her.

No release would visit him. He stank of pent-up mucus. He would never tower over her body again. And should  the memory of fear and aggression leak out of him, it would only mark the tedious arrival of mercy. He did not wish for his journey towards a more disciplined sense of self-worth.