Cyrus had heard all sorts of rumors about old age. He had heard that his ability to concentrate would drop. Bullshit. He had heard that his hearing would snuff out like a candlelight and his sight would narrow. Also Bullshit. He had heard many many things about his libido. Absolute Bullshit. He wasn't really that old and he knew all the talk was crap but he was excepting one thing pleasant on the horizon.
It was sleep. All the old people snooze like they're dead since they're already so damn close. Everyone knows that old people sleep more and they stay damn well asleep through everything short of an earthquake and even then the odds are to be reckoned with. He was expecting that in return for his gray hairs and slowly slacking skin that at the least, at the very least he would be able to sleep a tad better. We have come all the way around to Bullshit again.
Cyrus lay in bed that night eyes wide open and staring into the nothingness of the dark room. He did not breath for minutes at a time; he just lay there still and unhappy. He was a political monster, a monstrous human even and he knew that. He knew he had fucked things over in his marriage and he knew that he no dirt on Sally for the election.
He knew so much shit and usually that didn't really get to him. Usually Cyrus Beene could think through anything, he had the wits and the resources and the finances to fix just about anything. They called Olivia the professional fixer but hell if he wasn't one too. He held together this great nation with his small meaty fingers and he knew that things were falling apart. He wasn't stupid and this re-election would be a hell of an uphill battle sitting president or not. His president had a wang problem, his first lady was a cold hearted shrew and his campaign manager was his presidents whore. How utterly wonderful things were going for him.
The worst thing was that none of these things were at the center of his attention; not a single glaring problem in his administration or campaigning was taking the spotlight. If he focuses on anything of that nature long enough he'd sort through it, there were always arrangements to be made or people to look into and slowly with a nudge here and there the problems would begin to fall away.
He happened to be thinking about the cold space beside him where his husband ought to be. James was taking a shower; he hadn't left him just yet but Cyrus felt the storm brewing and he knew that it was only a matter of time. With a terrible sort of certainty Cyrus knew that his husband would leave him. Then the bed would always be cold and he would always be consumed in the thunderous silence of himself; draped in the cool air of loneliness. He would never subtly fall into slumber but rather he would plummet into it riding on the tail of some half baked nightmare of late.
He took a shallow breath and returned to the dark well of his thoughts. He had whored out his husband, whored him out to a nasty closet hillbilly. A buff lacrosse playing smooth faced hillbilly. It was stupid and dangerous and he was officially a glorified pimp. He was the the sacrilegious trinity: satan, lucifer and the evil spirit. He had broken their marriage. Thats how James had articulated it and he was damn well right to. What kind of human being offers up there own husband in a honeyed pot?
Ella was snoozing in across the hall and the water in the bathroom was dripping slower. The pitter patter had been steady for so long it was almost white noise. His husband had started taking excessively long showers, lounging there for hours at a time doubtlessly to avoid Cyrus for as long a physically possible.
Cyrus was still awake. He stayed up until the end of his husband's shower for days. He was suddenly nervous. How could he sleep with the his lovers eyes glaring viciously at him. How could he lull himself into the false security of his husbands presence when fate willed that it would soon be a lavish memory.
This was absurd. Cyrus was not a teenage girl hopped up on hormones and romance novels. He did not speculate on the futures woes or spin himself sad dramas. He dealt with what was and he played his hand to its highest reach. He needed to pull himself together and figure out how to handle this like a straightforward issue.
Then again that was his problem wasn't it. He treated his marriage like it was just another asset to utilize, like something he could fix with strategy but it wasn't that. It was the holiest thing in his godforsaken life and it was a human thing. He needed to fix it with humanity and kindness or something normal people did. He needed to fix it in a way that hadn't the slightest idea about.
The water shut off and he heard footsteps approaching. It was so much, it was all so much and he just didn't know. He couldn't fix it, it wasn't his field, he didn't know. The world was already dark but somehow the darkness was shifting around him.
He felt the breath hitch painfully in his lungs and his chest squeezed. It wasn't some melodramatic 'heart squeezed' romance bullshit either; it was an intense pain and it flared through chest and unfurled fierce and low in his belly. He let out an soundless moan and he felt a stiffness in his jaw. Sweat gathered the crook of neck, the base of his spine and every nook in between. His left arm spasmed and he wretched over to one side. His mouth hung open and the blackness was starting to settle a bit through the searing pain. This was it wasn't it, he was being claimed by that stupid ass deity everyone was always rambling about. He surged upward like a man possessed and then fell flatter and lay stiller than he thought possible. He had gone to far and his punishment was hither.