Marci had left the TV on again. It was on Dr. Fucking Phil.

A small, ironic part of Dave laughed, internally. He’d probably have laughed externally, too, but for the whole complete paralyzation thing. Irony had kept him alive.

If he’d had one wish, it would have been for someone to wheel him off a cliff. The thought of Dr. Fucking Phil for the rest of the afternoon made death seem attractive.

Second time this week. She’d left him forced to stare at the tube while she fixed herself in the other room. Some poker tournament or another. At least she wasn’t dabbling in the cash games again. That was more painful to watch than DFP .

A few strains of expletives could be heard above the faux psychobabble. Dave guessed some twelve year old from Costa Rica would be living large on this month’s disability pension.

If he’d had a second wish, it would have been for her. He wanted to live, but he wanted her to live more.