Although Francisco listened to Good Vibrations by The Beach Boys in his Triple-A class luxury cab home to New York, the moment his cab dug its way out of the ground and circled around his backyard pool and tennis courts, the things he was picking up were anything but good vibrations. Sure, the memory of this afternoon's lunch with Ventura set his ego grooving, but his feet were getting cold from his original intention to divorce his wife.

No, he would stick to it, he would divorce his wife. Not only would he be happy, but she would... well, maybe not be happy about it at first, but she'd come around to seeing that it was the best thing for all of them. Him, her... and their kids.

He crept in through one of the back doors. Hoping neither his wife nor any of the maids would catch him before he changed his shirt and took a shower to get the smell of Ventura's cologne off him from when they hugged goodbye,

(what was that work-related call of hers about anyway?)

he scurried across the halls and went the unusual way through his study to get to the stairs. However, the moment he made it up the first step, he heard something and instantly yelled out of fright.

"Master! You're home so late!" came a squealing electronic voice.

While Francisco cursed, and a vein throbbed in his left temple, he turned clenching his fists. It was a retro-looking robot maid made like a snowman out of spherical parts for the intention of looking friendly to the small children of the house. Francisco shot a finger at her pearly blue paint. "Don't you ever sneak up on me again," he said, "or I'll have you unplugged for good."

The cartoonish robot had a permanent smiling expression and could only respond with pleasantries. "Why thank you for noticing, sir. As for unplugging me though, I must admit I'm absolutely cordless!"

Francisco shook his head and turned on his heels while he managed to unclench his fists. "Just shut up and get back to work."

"Abusing the sub-sentient staff are you, honey?" piped a shrill and stabbing voice from high up above. Francisco raised his head and spotted the fake smile his wife always wore at church gatherings and family get-togethers and bit his tongue to calm the fire burning in his hands. He could strangle her. "Get those teeth implants done like I asked you?" she went on. "Why are you so late to supper?"

"Oh, you," chided Francisco with a rueful smile he thought his wife was too thick in the head to distinguish as anything more menacing than a regular smile. "You and your antics. Who do I know beside you who loves to pretend we've ever had supper in our whole goddam lives? You do, yes you—even though this is America and it's called dinner here. Get the difference, honey? Dinner?"

Instead of reading his anger she took his words for what they said at face value and blushed with a wave of her hand. "Oh, stahp, you know I'm a lady of the worllllld."

Reaching the top of the stairs, Francisco wondered if the height would be enough to push her to her death. Yes, yes it would, he thought. He replied with the fakest stretch of a smile he could muster in order to exert as much angry energy out of his skin as she was fueling into him by her obnoxious arrogance. "Oh, yes," he said, "your worldview is beyond measure, sweet cheeks. It must be all the Fox News you watch to keep yourself sharp."

"Why, yes!" she said. "A news channel that old couldn't be around unless it were incredibly noteworthy!"

"Yes! It wouldn't be special interests or anything like that keeping the propaganda alive and fearmongering your grandparents' generation to keep them running for the hills!" said Francisco.

His wife chortled and managed to slap him hard on the chest as he tried to dodge around her and run for the bathroom. "Oh, you and your jokes, Franny!"

"Wow, back to that nickname again, are you? You're on a roll today!" Francisco felt his teeth were going to fall out his mouth if he didn't stop matching her awful smile soon. Why did his wife turn out so evil? Oh wait, this is why:

"Oh, by the way," she said, following him into the bedroom as he got undressed to hop in the shower, "I ordered another neural nose surgery."

Aw yes, the technological implants, that's why. "But, honey," protested Francisco, "you know how much they smell when they get overheated. You don't want to be sniffing up more burning electronics than you already do, do you?"

His wife put her hands seriously on her hips and laughed. "Staying up to date with my body is the most important thing, honey! That's what technology's for!"

"Oh, is it? I thought you were just jumping off the cliff because all your mall friends are doing it, HONEY!"

She laughed like a horse galloping down the stairs like he was the world's most practical jokester. "You absolute CARD! You know me so well, that's EXACCCCCTLY why I'm getting the updates. Aww you." And she disappeared out of sight and unfortunately not out of mind.

Stripping down to his drawers and stepping into the shower, Francisco cursed his wife and hit the hot water running. He'd set it to as scorching and dangerous as he could and hoped all the skin she'd ever touched on his body would peel away. For the longest time he had no clue what to make of how pissed off he got at his wife and so often. She didn't even have to try to be obnoxious. She just was to him. For the longest time he considered his father's suggestion that he wouldn't love his wife if he didn't get royally pissed off at her now and again. But as of lately he came to the realization that this was the exception. His wife pissed him off so badly that it had nothing to do with love and everything to do with the innate desire to rip her fucking head off and find a real person on this fucking planet to help him forget she ever existed. But because of the ten commandments and the law of the land, he would only go as far as hate sex could get him until he found the guts to divorce her ass. And tonight was that night.

After his shower he stepped out and of course there was the pearly blue snowman-shaped maid holding out a towel for him. "Jesus Christ!" shouted Francisco.

"Moishe Rabbeinu!" the bot maid answered. "Your daughters and guest are downstairs waiting, sir."

"Daughters and guest?" said Francisco as he wiped his genitals in front of the bot to mock her.

"Why, sir," said the maid, "your daughter's new friend. Your eldest daughter asked me to wait to let her introduce him to you herself."

"Him?" said Francisco.

"Oops, oh dear, I've said too much," said the maid, and she spun one-hundred-eighty degrees on her wheels before hurrying out of the room.

Francisco stood frozen trying to comprehend the idea that his high school daughter brought a boy to this house. She had never brought a boy home before. Never even spoke about one. She knew that type of activity with the opposite sex was completely off limits while she was living under this roof. He held a traditional home and would not allow for his daughters to sink to the level of sex bots. No, sir, the way his family did it was through a paid community match maker, then shomer negiah style dating out in the open for coffee and dinners. Three to seven dates filled with articulate and purposefully deep conversations to get at the root of building a future would suffice to determine compatibility. If no, on to the next one. If yes, mazel tov. The family would be an undoubted success. But for his high school daughter to bring home a boy, even just a colleague was unprecedented and totally inappropriate. He would hurry downstairs to see this out. That boy must be the son of a very rich man or be fervently adamant about his homosexuality or asexuality to avoid the boot out the back door tonight.

Francisco hurried into his clothes and nearly jumped down the stairs. Reaching the living room, he found his wife and daughters waiting for him reading. They lifted their eyes to him when they saw his movement from the corners of their reading eyes. When they did the entire room lit up and all stood to their feet in their casual dresses. He returned their smiles for he could only see his beautiful daughters:

(not his wife)

the one of current topic of high school age, the others of elementary and daycare age. He stepped toward them when his eldest daughter whom he was most fervent to protect at this moment radiated from her cheeks when she came to hug him, and when she did she said:

"Oh father, it is so good to see you, tonight!"

"What makes tonight different from all other nights?" the father asked. Then the room turned a darker shade of red when his wife appeared from around the door. Beside her sat the leg of a sitting figure.

"Franny," said his wife, her voice as shrill as ever, "there is someone very special we'd like you to meet."

When Francisco turned his head, his face went pale. The figure wore a fine three-piece suit, tie and all, looking like a prep school boy dressed to impress, his smile was utterly warm and kind, and he bowed his head in a barely noticeable micro movement to show the father of the house his respects, and he gave Francisco his hand for a fine and firm handshake, the best Francisco could expect from a high school boy.

"Pleasure to meet you, sir," said the boy.

Francisco struggled to control himself. He nodded and said, all the while examining the boy's face for animal intention, "Yes. And who might you be."

"Carl, sir," said the boy. "Pleasure to meet you at last."

The handshake ended.

Francisco grimaced. He said, "Pleasure to meet me at last? Why, sounds like a long time waiting."

Carl nodded, all the while holding a smile. He was no doubt nervous, growing dry-mouthed. "I've heard a lot about you, sir. A lot of good things."

"Well, I know that's a lie," jeered Francisco as he turned over his shoulder to his daughters who instantly clapped into laughter. Carl on the other hand heard only the word 'lie.'

"No lie, sir. Clarita says you're a great man."

"Do you believe her?" said Francisco. He watched Carl closely for his answer.

The boy smiled and said as though for that very instant the words of a wiser, much older man slithered out his lips and scared Francisco into thinking he'd heard him wrong when Carl said, "The truth came home with you, sir. I know."

(the truth came home with you the truth)

Francisco's eyes shot to his wife who seemed to answer him with an unwavering stare that did not blink until he looked back to his daughter Clarita and then returned them to the boy Carl, who seemed terrified that Francisco had taken so long to respond; Francisco would have surely cracked a joke at that corny line by now.

"Hm," said Francisco. Nodding with a closing brow on the boy,

to which Carl answered, "I meant 'obviously,' because you look successful and your house is so big."

Francisco only nodded. Trapped in his own head. Forgetting that this boy was trying his best to impress the prominent father of a girl who attended his school and that any fuck up would risk Clarita going to her friends and laughing at his awkward interview with her father who clearly didn't like him.

"Thank you, Carl," said Francisco, and the room immediately melted out from the ice. Francisco walked toward the dining room and patted Carl on the shoulder carelessly as he passed. "Let's eat." The whole room was speechless but the wife and daughters all gave Carl looks of comfort and Clarita surely gave him a wink because that was her tendency whenever she wanted her sisters to see the positive sides of things. The maid rolled in and pushed Francisco's baby on her rolling cart toward the dining room with the others following suit. They drank the wine/grape juice, washed hands, cut the bread and ate a delicious meal. It was the desert that would provide the topic of conversation that would start the flame before the fire with which Francisco was going to jump into his divorce.