Our frozen year-old cake sits in the freezer, wedged between Tater Tots and Hot Pockets. I stand cold in my unwrinkled tuxedo. Knees locked, arms hung straight, eyes forward. Asexually erect. A plastic smile on my face. She stands beside me, the colorless color of ice. Waxen cleavage. Prego-red lips. She caresses the bouquet of frost-tipped roses and lilies in her hands. Her face turns away, caught by the flirtatious grin of the Hungry Man. Her expression, expectant: ready for Dreyer's or Ben's or Jerry's creamy ejaculate.

Or whatever his name is.

Her wedding dress stretches to the size of a Foster Farms chicken. My zipper remains zipped. I try to drag her across the icing. Tip her over the edge and onto the Popsicles, where she can swallow all the sticks she wants. Our hands frozen together by vows. I snap off an icicle above. Stab downward, slicing my right arm at the elbow. At least she cannot accuse me of never having given of myself.

I push the freezer door open. Slide down the handle. Swing from magnet to magnet. When my feet hit the ground, I'm full flesh. I reach up, remove our cake, and when she asks me if I'm really going to eat our cake all by myself, without thinking, I say I do.