My Concubiine

I have taken a mistress and her name is Wii.

I think of her all the time. She keeps me up late at night, palms sweating. I no longer read, nor write. I barely go outside anymore. All I want is Wii.

After dinner, I tell my wife that I'm going to do the dishes and that she should go upstairs to relax. But instead, I turn the TV down low, drain the rest of the dinner's wine into my glass and slide the coffee table away from the fireplace. We get fairly acrobatic some nights. Aerobic even.

Sometimes my brother joins in. I've heard that Wii can actually handle four at the same time. I don't have the equipment though.

I've even gone so far as to encourage my wife to try it, but she's says she's not into that kind of thing.

"Why not take a break?" Wii asks me sometimes. She'll gently encourage me to go outside, feel the wind on my face. But I don't.

Even my old faithful friend, TV, has become an exercise in disappointment. Between the writer's strike and the frusterating one-way nature of our relationship, there just seems to be something lacking. When was the last time TV listened to my needs? I find myself swinging my remote at Roger Federer.

In the strictest sense of the word, Wii doesn't actually listen to me. We don't speak it all, in fact. Purely physical, she feels me. Wordlessly, silently, or, with soothing music. As a good concubiine should.