Chet and Leslie, together forever. Leslie saw it on their tombstones: Chet Anderson 1978-2049, Leslie Hope 1976-2081, together forever. Hey, let’s be honest, who wouldn’t want to live to be 105? And to be a grieving widow for thirty-two years? Leslie could just imagine all his black widow’s weed outfits. He got a hard-on over it, don’t you know.
He truly loved Chet, the cheat. Hell, he couldn’t keep his pants zipped to save his life. The cheat. Leslie sniggered at the case of gonorrhea back in ’06 that Chet tried to hide from him – please, he knew about it before Chet did. And then came the bad case of anal warts in ’09. Stiff upper lip and all that, Chet sat him own on the den’s settee and told him.
“We’ll start using condoms,” Leslie replied in as even a voice as he could muster.
Seriously, though, Leslie had gotten used to the idea of Chet cheating. That’s why the image of Chet dying earlier and leaving him a young, grieving widow (okay, so he’d be 73, isn’t that young?) had immaculate appeal to him. But immaculate appeal wasn’t exactly like the immaculate conception, was it? No, except they both had a little God in them.
So when he got Chet pulled up by the jeans from the post on Barbary Lane, he laughed to himself. Only 34 more years until he could play the grieving widow.
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