I was hungry, and you can't live on the salt of tears. I washed my face in the kitchen sink, made a sandwich, and ate on the couch, looking at the outline of my TV.I sighed, and tried to think of something, anything to improve my mood. In a brief moment of inspiration, I flipped on my laptop, cranked the volume to maximum, and played a little music. Unfortunately, the damn shuffle just happened to pick "our song." Crowded House. "Don't dream it's over." I winced as the lyrics floated through. It had been our song at senior prom. The song that had been there for us throughout our marriage.I was not going to cry again, damn it. I stood up, and let the music flow through the room. With everything gone, the surfaces reflected the sound, turning the cheesy laptop speakers into an auditory feast.I could call her. Jess still had her cell phone. I could...What, you gonna beg now? You're divorced, bucko. You really want her to remember you on your knees, begging her to return?I didn't want. Seven made a gasp and a gurgling sound and then blinked. She was still alive. The process was not designed to kill.“Help me put Seven over the fire, Son” Dad lifted up Seven by her shoulders. I grabbed her feet, and we carted her over to a fire-pit outside of the barn. Seven herself had prepared that fire and primed it for us. We put her on the spit and let it slowly rotate and roast her.“Keep her basted, son,” Dad told me as he handed me a bucket of sauce and a brush.“Yeah, don’t burn her to a crisp, turd-boy!” My eldest sister Veronica teased me. I hated that nickname.My sisters gave it to me because when I was younger, I used to love watching Seven squat in the field and piss and shit. It fascinated me how animalistic it was. I used a toilet and was used to toilet paper. My Dad whipped Seven after giving her a few minutes to take a crap, and she stood up and air-dried.I learned a lot about women by watching Seven’s bodily functions. She was like my own personal National.
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