Our marriage works out because we know where each other are every night. Down the street from our humble hole rests an electric chair. That’s where Eve and I met, and that’s where we go every night after work.
We share a love of feeling shocked. There are electric chairs of all shapes and sizes all around the world, but our little hometown chair is the cheapest. For just a quarter, you can get five minutes of mutilating pain. After the shock, it is hard to think straight. My muscles don’t move right, and I see everything under a thick layer of fog.
I first saw Eve fumbling around town after my first shock. She’s older, so she’s been shocking herself for years. We found each other in the fog. Our burned skin sizzled when we touched each other. Our firework minds recognized the same sparkling starlight lit in each other’s eyes.
We both woke up at noon, still smoking from the night before. She said; “I don’t want this to be the end of us,” so I married her.
After all these years, we keep coming back for our nightly shock. The line gets longer and longer every night. The chair’s flashing lights look stronger, the older I get.
Sometimes, it seems Eve and I scare the younger patrons away. They see the chair’s long lasting effects in us. They hide their quarters and leave the line. Eve and I don’t mind. The line lessens and our time cuts itself shorter. All of these young guns know nothing about the chair. They don’t see the fireworks and the fog. The electric chair gives us grace. We know the age-old secret:
The chair stings deeper when you wear a ring.