Stan. Isn’t that a stupid name? Mom has me washing the dishes, but all I can think of is Stan and his stupid name and his gray mustache and big teeth and the way he walks—broad shoulders hunched over, hands in his pockets; reserved, but also harsh, like some disgruntled principal. I told her it was a stupid name when she brought him home on Saturday. She’s in her room now, probably crying about Stan. He hasn’t called her in four days, you see. And she usually doesn’t have to wait four days for a man to call her. I wish this sauce would come off the pan already. Scrubbing crusty sauce from a pan is the most detestable part of doing dishes. Mom got all depressed because this guy didn’t call her for two days, once. But that was back when she was in her thirties, still on the last years of her prime. She called that guy in the middle of the night, told him about her Prozac, and shame on him for toying with her emotions. He had to hang up, though. His wife was wondering why he was out of bed. It’s just really disgusting how goopy and watery the sauce will get in some places when you soak the pan. But it doesn’t help soften the crusting. Mom laughed at Stan’s jokes, when she brought him home, just like with lucky bachelors number one through fifty-three. And she placed a hand on his knee under the table, just like with all the others. She thinks I can’t see that, but I’ve caught on over the years. I should probably use the Brillo sponge on this. By the end of the night, she gave me twenty bucks. Like usual, I was supposed to give them “grownup time.” It’s the same term she’s used since I was six. I guess she never really accepted the fact that I grew up, even though I graduated college years ago. She gave me the Coop, too, to go pick up some ice cream with my twenty bucks. Gave me specific instructions to “take my time.” Her eyes were shining, desperate. I remember wondering if Stan could see this too. Finally. Just the plates to rinse and I’m done for the night. I took two hours to get ice cream, trying my very best to take as much time as I could. I still have nightmares sometimes from the moans and giggles of my mother fucking in the next room. I locked myself away when I got home, didn’t even bother asking about if Stan was there or not. Though she did look more ragged, more tired than usual, and her neck was covered in bruises. “Nice hickeys,” I joked. She didn’t say anything. From the look on her face, either Stan was really good or she was getting old. It’s always difficult for me to imagine my mother getting old. I don’t think that’ll ever stop her guests, though. Stan wasn’t there that morning. Thankfully he hasn’t called her back yet. But I hope she’s not crying too much before the next one. I should check on Mom. I think I just heard a crash from her room, like something’s fallen over.