Maury awakens pregnant with piss. He peers through the crusty sleep in his eyes and denotes what time it is by the blue gray hue of the bedroom. All he wants to do is hook Lori by the waist and fall back to sleep, but the bulge between his belly button and penis has swelled well into its third trimester and refuses to be ignored a moment more.

Leaving their heavenly equity of undercover warmth, he swings out of bed and, without making more than a floor board creak, enters his cold emotionless bathroom— a heavily glazed and glassed utility of zero appeal.

Standing over the toilet, legs spread and precisely aimed, he thinks of Lori. How she might take a deep breath through her nose if he snuggled up to her. How she’d smile and run her hand over his, turning to kiss him just once before succumbing to sleep again.

Then, to his surprise, an unmistakeable smell wafts by his nose. He looks down at his penis glistened moist with the sweet mess of sex.

We didn’t drink. We’re friends. How did this happen!?