Dave from the corner shoe store watches Cynthia walking into a hair salon. He grabs his notepad and pencil and jots down:

Cynthia at the salon, 3:09 p.m. She is wearing a red dress, with patterns of black and white little spots. She looks delicious in that dress. Might take pictures of her while she is not looking later. Let’s hope Jared doesn’t show up and make a scene. Jared does not deserve a girl like Cynthia in his life. She is too good for him.

Dave slips his pen and pad in his pocket and continues to watch Cynthia get her hair dyed, dirty blonde. But he thinks that she would look perfect as a brunette. He thinks that Cynthia as a brunette would replicate Bettie Page. She looks just like her. He believes this to be true. He knows this to be true. Therefore it is true. He is not sure if Cynthia believes this as well.

Cynthia finds Dave revolting. A walking pig, wrapped in a dark blue sweatshirt to hide his man-boobs, and flabby-winged arms, exposed belly looking like he’s pregnant. She does not see a future with Dave.

Dave is not the man for her. He is a pudgy, old-fashioned man and smells of a greased-up pizza. Not the good kind, not the kind that she likes, Domino’s Pizza, and side of buffalo wings, and celery sticks and ranch dip.

Cynthia is a sight. A beauty. A dunce sometimes. But nonetheless a beautiful creature with luscious pink lips, perky breasts, and long legs. Not as long as Nicole Kidman’s. But long enough.

At his apartment, when he is off from working at the shoe store, Dave lies flat on his bed, looking up at his ceiling fan, and gets lost in his fantasy. Dreaming about Cynthia. He dreams of a happy marriage with Cynthia. The typical “1950s nuclear family” lifestyle, in the suburbs. He dreams of being the head of the family and Cynthia, by his side, pampering him and feeding him home cooked meals that he likes to eat, chicken pot pie, T-bone steak and mash taters, California sushi rolls, Hamburger Helper, clam chowder, etc. And then there is another dream (or fantasy if you will) where he gags her up and sticks greased-up rubber ducks up her snatch, one by one. She moans a powerful and painful and uncomfortable moan (not without reason, of course). Moaning sounds sipping through the gag as if it is the last thing she will ever utter. She squirts white mess everywhere on the basement floor (a mess that Dave will have to mop later). Dave pulls a rubber ducky out her wet and messy snatch. His fat nose touches the white messed rubber duck. Curiosity speaks to him and without hesitation like a dog he sniffs at it and then licks off the white mess clean. It smells and tastes like tuna. Quite the aroma.

Once they complete and fulfill their sick sexual acts of human degradation, Cynthia cleans herself up, goes back inside the house, continuing on her wifely duties, pretending as if nothing in the basement ever happened. Suppressing those feelings and memories. The act of sex in the house is non-existent. If it didn’t happen in the house (living room) then it didn’t happen at all. This is his dream—his mission and goal—to be the man Cynthia needs and deserves. He must not let her slip away.