I tend to give George—the human incinerator—the evil eye every time I see him inhale a Twinkie or watch him slurp up a bowl of Dreyer’s Butter Pecan or devour a chunk of carrot cake. This would be every night before bed. He eats teriyaki anything, and if he can’t watch the butter drip onto his plate, it means it’s not enough. He doesn’t believe in exercise. Says we were given the bodies we were destined to have. I have a hard time accepting this, especially since he’s got a little inner tube forming around his waist, and pectorals that sag worse than mine. I told him this is called fat. It can be burned off. A few crunches and handheld weights could help get rid of it. He thinks he looks good, which must be the reason why he always wears pajamas to bed. I can count how many times I’ve seen him naked. We bathe separately. I have to leave the bathroom when it’s his turn. He says it’s about privacy. I can respect that most of the time. When we make love—if you can call it that—he takes everything off under the covers. He’s quick about his business, too, but sometimes I can beat him, depending on how tired I am. He doesn’t even like to put it in very often, and when he does, it’s not for very long, which is why I was so shocked when I found out yesterday that I’m seven weeks pregnant. I have not told George, because I don’t know how to tell him. Or when. He’s the first man I’ve ever met that can get off just by rubbing up against me. He says it’s about friction. I just say whatever works. Other times he likes me to pretend it’s an ice-cream cone or begs me to use my hands like I’m trying to start a fire by stroking up and down. It’s been like this for a while, but I figure every man has pet things he likes, and these are George’s. One thing he refuses to do, however, is put his mouth down there. I’ve pleaded with him to try, but he said he just can’t do it. It’s unsanitary. He can’t stand the smell. But we have a ritual: I bathe every single night at nine o’clock, because I read at least an hour before I go to bed. He goes in right after me. I’ve tried everything, but all he’ll do is use his finger, and sometimes, when we’re sitting in bed watching a video—not necessarily a porno—and both of our hands are working, I feel really stupid. Really stupid.

To be on the safe side, when Shanice came home from Mama’s after the New Year, I sat her and George down in a room together so we could get all this ugly business cleared up and behind us.

“George, have you ever raised your hand to Shanice without my knowledge?”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer.”