"I don't know Roger, maybe Stan is just getting tired of this marriage—I mean I try my hardest to keep things fresh, and the only response I receive is a "ugh" or "okay, that's great Francine". He doesn't even call me Franny anymore, as if calling me by my nickname is just utter bullshit ... like why bother, right?", a defeated Francine, a weary house-wife of suburban Virgina, is seeking advice over a glass of whiskey with her eccentric alien companion, in the stone quiet kitchen that once held together marital yearning.
And it's only 11:36 in the morning.
"Have you ever tried giving him head? Men love getting head — especially from a blonde—wink wink", a seemingly pleasant laughing Roger nudges Franny to lift her spirits up, but the realization of her failing marriage was all too heavy to bare. She gripped her tissue, trying to think of other methods to win her husband back—just the thought of a wife having to think of ways to win their husband back–what a crock.
"I tried everything. Just last night, he fell right to sleep while I had his dick in my mouth. I've been wearing silky see-through lingerie, crotch-less panties, latex underwear–no bra–,and nothing seems to peak his interest", Roger placed his cold grey, long fingers onto Francine's back hand, "Oh, Franny, maybe it's him? He seems a bit distracted—he doesn't realize that his wife is trying to break him away from his daily stress" Roger's kind words only went in one ear, and out the other.
"Forget it, Roger. It's me. He's lost all the excitement for me, he sees me as just his wife who he probably wants to axe murder, for being in his face so much. I'm not the spring chicken I use to be when Stan and I first met", tears streamed down her pale cheeks, that fell onto the dinner table's cloth.
"How about I go talk to him?", Roger perked up, maybe to find the problem in the marriage, to fix things; to detach Stan from the black void that has been eating him up for the past months.
Francine looked up from staring down at her lap, her piercing blue eyes had became watery, and soft red. Roger sat up from the teal green chair, and headed to the fridge, taking out ingredients to make a sandwich. Francine kept silent as she watched the psychotic alien go to the cabinet to retrieve the bread, "The way to a guy is a nice homely sandwich", Roger applied the mayonise swiftly, "He'll be here any minute from work, right?" Roger's eyes trailed upward to Francine, who was still gripping her muscus soaked napkin, she nodded gently–as her migraine started to circulate her skull.
"Well, he'll want a nice snack when he comes to his castle", Roger finished the sandwich with Francine still sitting mumble. "Don't worry Franny, he'll come around once we talk man to man", as Roger left the opened ingredients on the floor, having it installed in him that Francine will be cleaning it up—regardless of her distraught mental state, he left for Stan's study.
It has struck 8 o' clock in the night, countless hours of anticipation waiting for her husband to return, but no husband. Francine had locked herself in the bedroom, even in dinner her kids could see her distress.
"Francine, can I come in?", an heavy German accent that belonged to the family's pet goldfish, Klaus, echoed against the wall pavements, but her eardrums were soundproof. "No, Klaus I'm fine", her tone draped over the spoken words as in being suffocated under water soaked blankets; trying to escape but only feeling yourself dying a little more than before.
All she wanted to hear was Stan's deep voice against her skin; before when he use to hold her wrists together with one hand, the tip of his tongue grazing, and circling her hard nipples.
Stan sucking the side of her plush breasts, leaving the marks of his sharp teeth, and saliva.
Just the thought of Stan touching her, which hasn't been done in months, makes Franny quiver. For the past five or six months, Stan has been unattentive, frivolous, angry, quiet, and incurious about their physical love life.
"Have I become unattractive?"
"Does he still love me?"
"Have I become boring?"
Unanswered questions were burning, and oozing through crevices of her brain.
"He use to make me look at him in the eye when he would come — home"