A Rubber Dong For Clara

    Perry’s face brightened upon hearing the familiar rhythm of Clara’s heels, coming down the long hospice hallway in what, he thought, approached perfect four-four time. He had long ago come to terms with the disease that would soon separate he and his young wife, and, optimistic sort of fellow he was, resigned himself to the simple pleasures that remained, like this visit, and good, long fap sessions to that Spanish channel--the one that always showed ladies in lingerie for a reason beyond Perry and I.
    “Holy shit,” Clara said, licking a finger. “Did you know they put a Pinkberry right next door?”
    “Uh, no,” Perry said weakly. “Just been, uh, hanging out here.”   
    “Well you should go sometime, seriously, it is amazing.”
    Watching her lick the rest of her fingers, Perry was reminded of the purpose of their meeting. “Clara, so I was thinking--”
    “Hey, did you hear they’re doing a new Footloose? I’ll probably see it, but it’s like, ‘How can you improve on the original, right?’”
    “Clara, we need to talk. About the mold.”
    This had been weighing heavily on Perry’s mind since the initial diagnosis sank in. In those days, it was customary for a soon-to-be-widow to have a rubber mold of her departing husband’s penis made, particularly if the married couple in question were young--like Perry and Clara Horningsickle, 31 and 29, respectively. It was a sign of eternal love and faithfulness, the idea being that, once the woman is widowed, she may feel as close to her husband--and his dong--in death as she was in life; a sign that his was the only dong the woman would ever need. It was really a very sweet sentiment, as far as the manufacture of dildos goes.
    Aside from that, this was seen as a positive bit of progress, as in the years before the penis molding idea, women were given the choice of being buried alive with their husbands or facing public ridicule, being called “skeezers” by the townspeople and the like.
    “Oh, yeah,” Clara said. “Well, whatever, I mean, you can do what you want.”
    “But, don’t you want it?” he said vulnerably.
    “Uh,” she said, moving her gaze from the screen of her phone to the room’s television. “Has Stuart Scott’s eye always been like that? Creeps me out, you know?”
    “Clara. The mold.”
    “Jeez, is that all you ever talk about?”
    “It’s just that the Dr. Arnett said I only--”
    “Look, I don’t want to fight.”
    “So?”
    “Uh... No, not really, no.”
    “Clara, I know you’re not the kind to keep a rubber dick around--”
    “No, actually I have a bunch. They’re in the drawer under the--”
    “But it would mean a lot to me. I'm not going to be around for much longer, and I want you to have a piece of me with you always. And that piece is my dong.”
    Perry had tears streaming down his face now. The drugs they were pumping into him to ease the pain had had sever side effects, and one of them, apparently, was that he had turned into a total pussy.
    “It’s just what people do, Clara” Perry said finally.
    “Yeah, I know,” Clara said, looking at her phone once more. “Hey, I’ve got to skedaddle. Tyra and I are going to go to Austin for the weekend, so I’ll think about the whole rubber schlong mold thing and see you when I get back.”
    “But, Dr. Arnett said--”
    Clara leaned down and kissed Perry on the mouth, stifling the words--a retelling of Dr. Arnett’s latest, grimmest assessment--into a peculiar hum.
    Before he could gather his thoughts, Clara was striding from the room.
    From the long hallway, Perry listened to the rhythmic clicking fade and fade. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. He was exhausted and lost in thought--so much so that he didn’t hear that clicking reverse, growing and growing, drawing nearer once more. He looked up to see Clara smiling at him from the foot of his bed.
    “Forgot my hair clip,” she said. “TTYL!”