Fulton Miller sends me death stares whenever I look in his direction. To be fair, I slept with his wife. Coincidentally, she died the next day. In fact, all of the following events are, of course, coincidental, but unfortunate none the less. I finished my homework, sipped my milkshake, and got out of the restaurant.

“Hey Spotty. You gutless clown.”

“Yes Fulton?”

“You dress like a moron.”

“Fair enough.” I said. “Well...I'll see you tomorrow then.”

Fulton's wife was not attractive, nor was she promiscuous, she was just terminally ill. I thought it odd when she sent me an e-card requesting my sexual presence, being her and I had met only once —but knowing that she had very little time left on this planet, I accepted and spent forty minutes inside of her.

“Thank you, Spotty.” She said. “I can die now.”

“Oh, you don't have to die right now...” I said quickly. Truth be told, Mrs. Miller should have been dead six months ago...but the human body is capable of some pretty remarkable things. Anyway, she died the next day. Seeing Fulton afterwards was pretty uncomfortable—as I was the last man to see her alive—as well as the last man to have intercourse with her. During her last few hours we held each other and spoke about pet peeves. I told her how I hated having too many objects in my pockets, she told me her disdain for getting in and out of cars. Overall, she was an alright woman, and a decent distraction from work. I have a taxing job that I'd really rather not get into now, but it requires a heavy wind-down period following the end of my work day. This period involves heading into the Colonial Diner between 30th and Broadway and ordering a shot of gin accompanied by a Negra Modelo or whatever imported beer they have that night. Don't get me wrong, I'm not the type that drinks imported beers and chortles about climate change, electric cars, and how backpacking through Europe changed my life, I just find imported beers to be more... ergonomic. Anyway, I work alongside Fulton Miller at a company where I build Internet personalities for clients. Fulton was not able to build his wife's profile legally—conflict of interest, so he handed her off to me. A + B = C, she chose me to give her sex.

Her dying wish was to experience another man's touch, so you would think Fulton wouldn't have been so cheesed at me, since it was technically all her fault. I don't condone his actions—those actions being my new black eye and missing canine. I mean the tooth, not the dog. I own a canine, I call him Boxer, he's a mutt. Shortly after, I walked out of the Colonial and waited for the train. Fulton's smarmy comments were fresh in my mind, so I made the decision that I would go back in time.