The penis and vagina were very happy. Everything seemed to be going their way.
The wealth multiplied the penis’s desires. Suddenly he could have anything he wanted: boats, jets, penthouses, islands, diamonds, tigers, Aston Martins, cocaine. He purchased eight sports coats that together cost more than the average middle-income home.
The vagina warned the penis not to get swollen, to remember their humble beginnings.
The penis basked in his celebrity. He held big parties. Agents emailed agents to get on lists. One time, after a night of partying, the penises and vaginas woke to find a boat marooned on the beach. Nobody knew how it had gotten there or to whom it belonged. The penis had the butler rig it with explosives, then sat back and watched it get blown to pieces.
Larry Page is stuffy. He stands, walks to the sliding glass door, flicks the lock and steps outside. There is a hot tub. There is all-weather furniture. There is a redwood cabana made by a Native American who carves imposing women from fallen redwoods, to Larry Page’s concern.
The patio is wood. They had considered faux for its weather resistance, shine, longevity. But his childhood patio had been real wood. He’d helped his father build it. The splinters in his feet had taught him something about suffering and responsibility. Larry removes his phone from his pajama pocket. He pans left, then right. The sun comes in bars of gold that split the trees and speckle the patio. He presses the phone’s screen where a button should be. The phone clicks where a lens should be. Larry Page has not made love to his wife in ninety-two days.