I was using Eric’s office chair as my makeshift wheelchair, rolling across the kitchen floor linoleum in great abandonment as I prepared lunch. I was moving from the refrigerator to the counter like a possessed physically challenged office worker moonlighting as a chef, my hands reaching upwards to chop garlic.

But as I groped for another clove, my awkwardness inadvertently knocked the chopping knife into the sink. I blindly reached into the large steel basin, my fingers barely reaching downward along the sloped sink edge, incapable of reaching the center drum where I knew the knife rested.

“Eric?” I yelled through the house.

The only response was silence even though I knew he had heard me. After years of spending time with Eric, I knew our old married couple routine by heart.

I let it go, determined to find the knife. My hand continued to search through the sink when suddenly I recoiled in pain. A small trickle of blood flowed from my index finger, cut open by the unseen knife blade somewhere in the sink.

“ERIC! I’m bleeding!”

I knew that would get him to the kitchen and I was right. His footsteps suddenly approached from the other side of the house.

“What the…” he moaned begrudgingly, his dark tan exemplifying his current coarse of unemployment and his many days poolside.

“I dropped the knife. I went to reach for it and-”

“Drew,” pleaded Eric, picking up the knife and putting it in the dishwasher, then opening a nearby cutlery drawer. “There are plenty of knives right in here that are much safer than your professional ones.”

“I’m making us lunch, Eric. I was simply-”

“Simply trying to do too much. Drew, you don’t have to cook. You should be resting. But you continue to do these things you shouldn’t be doing and now you’ve hurt yourself.”

I was silent.

He continued, “You have this. The doctors said you need to use this. Even me, your HUSBAND, said you need to use this.” He reached behind the wall, showing me the dreaded walker.

“That’s for old people,” I barked, putting my cut finger in my mouth.

“It’s a walker, for godsake! You’re not walking through West Hollywood with it, it’s in your house. You’ve got no reason to be embarrassed.”

“I…” but I couldn’t finish the sentence without the tears beginning to flow. “I just…want to feel good. I feel so ugly. Fat, wounded, and there you are bouncing around like some Greek god. I feel less than.”

“Drew, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Don’t! I hate it when you invalidate what I’m saying. I know it sounds stupid, but it’s how I feel. I’m trying here,” I cried.

“You…” whispered Eric, cupping my face in his hands, “are my husband and I love you. You’re sexy as hell.”

I paused because deep inside I wanted to hear more. “No, I’m not.”

Eric kissed my eyes, his lips touching my salty tears. Before I knew it, my I.H. (intimacy hard-on) was at half-mast, moving into full sail.

“You’re beautiful, Drew,” he whispered, continuing down my neck and lifting up my shirt, his hands unbuttoning my shorts and sliding them down my hairy legs.

Ironically, I swayed as Eric’s mouth worked over my cock. I almost lost my balance and quickly leaned against the kitchen counter--- realizing that perhaps I had finally found something useful for that dreaded walker.