My father hated heating pads, but I never concurred, that is until mine ended my marriage. But there she was, Angel Carter, Heating Pad/massage specialist, and there I was, in need of physical therapy. "This one has vibrate if your heart can handle it," she giggled. It was a standard joke, she would later tell me over cocktails and French-fries.
"I fell off my bike carrying groceries and a book of poems," I said, showing her my broken arm. She laughed, saying I wasn't exactly a tough guy was I.
We made out in the store for four hours, married in Vegas the next evening, and remained together for two weeks solid before she left me for a biker. He had a motorcycle accident while carrying ammunition and a porno book . I fell in love that day with a massage therapist from the wrong side of town, and all I have left is a heating pad and divorce papers.