Page 120 of The Gaybor War

Morningwood greets us the same way it always does. With nonsense.

"Home sweet aggressively regulated home," I mutter as Carter passes through the gated entrance. Turning onto Cockburn Street, he parks in his driveway and kills the engine with a sigh.

I’m halfway out of the car, stretching after the long drive, when Carter freezes beside me, phone in hand, face tightening into that specific expression that means the HOA has struck again.

"Oh no. What fresh hell is this?"

"Eunice is back," he mutters.

"How can you tell?"

"Tone. Font choice. Excessive capitalization. This isn’t the work of the mysterious Morningwood Monthly creator; this is her."

I crane my neck to read over his shoulder.

SUBJECT: IMPORTANT COMMUNITY UPDATES — PLEASE READ IN FULL

Locktober has apparently evolved into a quarterly event. Something about rotating locks to discourage temptation and promote safety. There’s a spreadsheet.

No-Nut November now includes an illustration of pinecones wearing reflective vests.

"She’s added clip art," I gasp in horror.

"She’s included a flowchart."

"Carter," I say gravely. "She is weaponizing Microsoft Word."

We stand in the driveway reading the email, shoulder to shoulder, and then I start laughing. The kind that takes my knees out.

"She thinks No-Nut November is about yard debris," I wheeze. "I cannot live like this."

"You do live like this."

"Not anymore. Now I have you."

Oh God, why did I say that? All it takes is a handful of extraordinary orgasms, and I’m gooier than overcooked mozzarella sticks! Thankfully, Carter doesn’t seem to notice. He’s already scrolling, muttering commentary under his breath.

"Why are there acorn mascots wearing safety vests?"

"I don’t know."

"Why is there a padlock with a smiley face?"

"I don’t know."

He finally looks up. "Why does Eunice think temptation lives in our doorknobs?"

"I really don’t know."

We move inside together without discussing it. The motion is natural. Easy. He sets his bag down by the stairs. I pick up the mail. He flips on the light. I kick off my shoes. He nudges them into alignment without comment.

It happens without thinking. It’s automatic Domestic. Dangerous.

Inside jokes start to bloom immediately. We riff on the email as if we’re co-hosting a deeply unhinged podcast.

"She’s added a reminder about the cider tasting," Carter says, scrolling. He winces. "She wrote, ‘Take it to the mouth.’"

"She did not."