The light is off, and it is dark. He has one hand pressed against the cold tiles of the wall above the toilet, and with his other hand he is taking aim, such as it is. He’s waiting for his prostate to get out of the way so he can take a well-deserved leak and get back to bed where he belongs, so that if by chance his heart stops this very second, he won’t be found – holding his pecker, dead on the floor – by a bunch of twenty-year-old medics who will gawk at his circumcision and bad luck.
-Derek B. Miller
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