The day my wife removed me from her life started out like any other day. We half woke up to the corny music she liked until she hit the snooze button with her lightning-fast hand. Then she slowed it down to theatrical exactitude as her fingers searched for me between the sheets.
They probed underneath her pillow, and finally between her legs where she found me, limp and damp from her nightly games. She brusquely pulled me out, and I managed a token thrash before she tucked me back into wet darkness, where she pressed me hard against her clit and made me slide up and down over it until she came. I should have been too tired, too bruised to do the same, but she extracted one orgasm out of me anyway.
After a quiet breakfast, during which she impassively watched me eat a pinch of scrambled eggs and a few crumbs of toast soaked in black coffee, she swept me off her plate and put me in a shoebox. She'd never done that before, so naturally, I was alarmed. I tried to cry out in protest, but I had forgotten how. She'd trained me well, and I figured she had some new game in mind. I sat in the box shotgun to my wife and tried to nap while she drove. Her gaze always felt like a flame torch aimed at my body from a dangerously close distance, but I didn't feel her eyes on me once during the entire drive. As soon as I managed to doze off, the car jerked to a stop that sent the box forward. My wife had strapped the seat belt around it, but she forgot to secure me, so I continued traveling inside the box, from point A to cardboard wall B, where I crashed painfully.
If my enormous spouse noticed my yelps, she ignored them and grabbed the topless box. She emerged from the car into cold, rainy weather, and I realized I wasn't wearing a stitch of clothing as she pressed the shoebox against her body. There was nothing new about my leaving the house in the buff because I was always hidden in her clothes. Now I was unprotected. Still, I bit my lip and said nothing, did nothing but palm my cock and look up at the roundness of her breasts under a raincoat, and her jawline far above. I puzzled over her strange behavior. I always wore clothes when she took me to the doctor. I had clothes for every social occasion, so I deduced this was anything but that just as we entered a building.
As soon as she set down the shoebox, I got up and stood on my toes to try to ascertain where we were. I didn't need to, because I saw the head of a receptionist. Her eyes set on me for a moment, and moved to my wife when she said, "I'd like to surrender my husband."
"What?" I mouthed breathlessly.
"Very well," said the woman, as though she was used to this. She went on, as rote as a robot. "Would you like to list a reason? If it's a health issue, we have low-cost—"
"N-no! Honey, what's happening?"
"Yes, I'd like to list a reason. Boredom. He's a boring little shit."
"Okay. Would you like to pick a foster home for him?"
"No. Toss him into a meat grinder, for all I care."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Is that it? Do I have to sign anything?"
"No, ma'am. All you have to do to make your divorce official is to watch as I deactivate his subcutaneous property chip. This process may be filmed or recorded for your own protection. May I proceed?"
"I'm your husband! I love you, and I'm not boring! Please, listen to me. Let's talk about this!"
"Yes. Let's get this over with."
The woman, the monster that loomed over me aimed a gun-shaped object in my direction. A red light radiated from it and landed on me a dot. I jumped out of the red beam's way, but not fast enough. Pain shot through my shoulder, and I screamed, but not because of it. I howled in agony because my wife turned around and left me there. She left me with this strange woman that looked at me like I was nothing. Garbage. I curled into a ball and wept.
I never saw it coming. I had no idea I was now a boring little fuck to the woman I had married. We had sex all the time. I thought back to the last time I'd made her laugh, and swallowed hard when I started counting months. I searched my mind for the last time she'd told me she loved me, and I couldn't think that far back. I told her I loved her all the time, but I tended to shout the words when she was using me hard, to remind her I was made of bones and flesh, to make her see she was squeezing too hard, plunging too deep, rubbing too long.
I started tallying the times I'd watch the blank expression on her face when she looked at me, when she listened to my stupid jokes. They were dumb jokes, the kind that had sent her into paroxysms of laughter a few years back. Certainly not reasons for divorce in the type of society that unbinds people from the burden of life with a small person with the ease of a computer's click. I tried to calm myself. Maybe the receptionist could help me. I sat up straight and rubbed the wetness from my face.
"Ma'am?" She didn't hear me or ignored me.
"Ma'am, please help me? I love my wife. I don't belong here. Could I use your phone? Maybe if I talk to her, she'll come back and get me. Please?"
There was nothing on the receptionist's face that betrayed emotion as she started typing on a keyboard I could not see. I decided to change tactics.
"What is this place?" I asked, my voice too broken to sound nonchalant, but I thought I had done an excellent job of composing myself. The woman stopped typing and looked at me, this time really looked at me and smiled. The gesture never reached her eyes, but everything about her face was emotionless.
"Your ex-wife divorced you, and now you're the state's property. We'll find a new place for you, somewhere warm, where you're wanted." I didn't like the way she said those words. Like they were a joke. I nodded in response, but she had already looked away and resumed typing. I felt sick. Smaller than ever. All I had left were my wits, but they felt dull. My thought process had atrophied due to a life of excess. My wife's excess, to be precise. She seemed to need sex all the time when I was okay with a couple of daily rumps. If I called her and explained that I would be a more enthusiastic lover, she'd take me back. Maybe my foster keeper would let me borrow their phone. My brief optimism was interrupted by a new voice.
"What do we have here?"
I looked up and saw the head and torso of someone new, a woman endowed with enormous breasts. Her smiling face shone between them like a rising sun, and I returned her smile with a weak effort of my own. She looked away, and I realized she hadn't been smiling at me, but about me.
"Oh, nothing. A.M. detritus. I'm not filing it until after my lunch break."
"Interesting."
The exchange above worried me. It felt a little too off-the-books. Too over my head. I demanded to be included in the conversation by expressing opposition to being called "detritus."
"Ladies, please excuse me. I'm a person. I'm not garbage."
"How interesting?" They continued, ignoring me.
"I heard that new place two blocks from here needs short pig for the lunchtime rush."
"Which place? 'Shanghai Bowl' or 'Mr. Wu's'?"
"He changed it to 'Wu's Kitchen' last week."
"I don't like his place. They devein the poor little things before serving them."
"Yeah, but he pays two bucks a piggie. Do you want to make twenty bucks today, or half that much if I take them to the other place?"
"Forty dollars. I have two boxfuls' worth of little piggies."
I didn't feel invisible anymore. On the contrary, I felt a little too visible. The two women making up the sky over me were calling me 'short pig,' and I didn't like the appellative and its every implication. The closest I've gotten to becoming food had been when my wife—ex-wife now—told me I was her sex candy. She swirled me in her mouth until I nearly drowned in the cocktail of her saliva and my cum. I ached for her mouth as I sensed the exact degree of danger I was in.
"Don't," I begged, quietly, mostly to myself. Any sound I made felt like an empty prayer. People asked their gods to relieve them from the effects of weather, unemployment, racism, hatred, and every inevitable ticker-tape aspect of life. They were still bulldozed by it. I was no different, and I was about to be bulldozed. No amount of praying to any fake friend in the sky would help. I plopped down and sat on my heels. I stopped covering my cock. Modesty had no place in a place where people thought of me as an ingredient. My feelings didn't matter, as it turned out.
"Do you have time to void him?" asked the receptionist.
"Sure," answered his partner in crime. "This little piggie looks well taken care of. I bet his tum-tum is full of breakfast, and his balls are full of cum. That makes for bitter meat."
"No!" I claimed, falsely, stupidly. "I'm empty. I had no breakfast. Please don't void me, whatever that means!"
I knew exactly what it meant when a feminine hand claimed me and tore me from the shoebox I far preferred as my keeper. I was entombed by her palm, encircled by flesh that made me feel unfaithful, carried off to a new place. A room full of secrets I barely had time to discern before the hand that transported me bloomed long enough to deposit me into the folds of her sex. Faithful until the very end, I ignored every tumescence, every gushing wetness, every moan, and focused on my surroundings.
In every direction, there were glass cases full of people like me. Little men and women. Short pig. My handler came all over my body. The salt of her juices blinded me temporarily, and long enough for me to give up. I was nothing to her. I meant nothing to no one. An hour later, I was delivered to the back door of a restaurant with a few dozen others. I was washed, deveined, pan-fried for thirty seconds, and served on a plate to a hungry dinner crowd. My last thought was about my wife. Giant teeth severed my twitching body when I only thought about her. Then, the freedom of nothingness.