Alive.

That's how I felt, panting like a dog in the summer sun. That was, by far, the best sex of my entire life. The sheets

had seperated from the duvet and were clinging to Amy like a dying breath, which she promptly exhaled whispering the

word "fuck". Being the modest man I am, I took the compliment and turned to face her eye-to-eye for a post sex

staredown. Maybe we could go five minutes without her asking me what I'm thinking this time. Ah I don't really mean that. See, this is what I love most about Amy; She gives me the confidence to be the man I want

to be, while making me want to be something better. I've watched guys I know grow up to be great men. I've also watched

other guys I know grow up to be assholes. Growing up is by far the hardest thing that we do as men, or should I say, to

become men. Society pulls us one way, tv pulls us another, money pulls us in another direction altogether. It's like a

sea of hands and you grab one and the other ones all pull you back with perfectly valid reasoning..

This is where Amy would place her fingers softly on my lips and tell me to shut the fuck up.

I ramble sometimes, something that is hardly a loveable trait in anyone. In fact, it's gotten me in to trouble quite a

few times, but I can't help it. Last week, Brian in accounts told me to go fuck myself because of my rather long-winded

justification of my departments expenditure. I decided I knew better, didn't react and let him have his 10 seconds of

glory as he internally hi-fived every person he passed on the walk back to his office. Good for you Brian. Regardless, I still envy him. I would never have the balls to say that to somebody, howevermuch I would love to believe

that I do. He's certainly not the man that I want to be, in fact Brian's an asshole but that doesn't mean that there's

not a part of Brian that I wish I could emulate. I could say the same about my Dad. He was the hardest working, most

honest person I ever knew. He didn't love my Mom and they tried to hide it from me but I knew. That didn't stop him

from working overtime 7 days a week to get me through college though. Look, I'm not trying to say that I now have a great understanding of what it means to be a man because I don't. In

fact, I'm saying quite the opposite. The best version of the man that I want to be would get down on bended knee, whisk

Amy off to a small suburban town where we could have children and raise them to be the best people that they can be.

But that's not how it works, because the small part of me that wants to be an asshole grows exponentially the closer I

get to becoming that man. Great. 30 years in and I still don't know what I want and, as I gaze in to Amy's eyes I can't

help but feel a sickening mixture of slightly happy, but mostly, empty.

"What are you thinking about?"

What was especially weird about this sudden interruption was not that Amy could not have timed it as I arrived upon a

worse realisation, but that it wasn't her voice.

"Amy?"

"Sir, what are you thinking about? We need to know what you've been thinking about."

As my vision blurred between one reality and another, I lost all sight of what was actually real before waking up in a

hospital bed. Amy's soft, green eyes had been replaced by several, gathered around a bedside observing me. I retreated

in to my pillow.

"Sir, it's okay. You were only unconscious for 30 minutes. Could you please tell us a little bit about what you saw?"