Drop what you're wearing

Because of my pseudonym on a sex site, a whole family called me John.

They called me John calling from the kitchen. They called me John when all the wives and girlfriends were kissing their lovers at the table, but my compudate and me were just sitting in place, even though he had voted Republican and earned the right to make out with the rest of them, they called me John in their minds wishing I would just put out so they could go on with their lipid mixing, noble attempts to found a race.

In time they called me John when I whipped around a corner past them, calling out the windows of their F-150's, slowing down, thinking I could hear them, that I would respond as anyone would to a name. They feared that "John" guy in the small town when I called to complain about the utility, corner shop, hay broker. Everyone seemed to be connected by clan and known by a monicker of Christendom. Why didn't I recognize mine?

On a camping trip all the kids ran past in their boots and down calling out John come and play war.

During cocktails but before wine when we'd go and disappear into compudate's boudoir, he didn't know what to call me, and we didn't care. It was prolly just the two of us there in the entire county with that kind of romantic flair, but no one was counting. What we would wear would be dropping.

by Sylvia