Cheap whisky and a bottle of Seven-Up. A table full of unfolded laundry, grocery items still in the bag, socks, underwear, and a half used loaf of bread. A spot has been cleared, or rather, the mess has been pushed aside. Just enough room for a laptop and a tall drink. She bid me come to bed. We did not sleep.
When he did not come home last night, I scrubbed the thing until I couldn’t keep my eyes open. When he clambered his way into bed reeking of booze and other things, I mumbled something and turned over pretending I hadn’t woken. I listened to his drunken snore for at least an hour before I gave up on getting back to sleep.
I spent the better part of the morning staring at the stove. There was a smudge on the otherwise white enamel. I wanted to play the wife to cook him the meal that would keep him at home. But I couldn’t. I just stared at the smudge. When he woke, he decided that we’d go out.
I sat staring at him through the raising steam of our coffees. I was held at bay by the outline of a single red lip on the inside of my cup and the overworked stare of our waitress. My husband was trying to talk some sense into her. She didn’t want to give me a clean cup and claimed that I left the print. I hadn’t even the time to take a sip, and it wasn’t even my shade.
I woke up to take a piss. My head was pounding from the better part of a fifth, and there she was with her accusative stare. She, who couldn’t be bothered to attend to her wifely duties. She, who couldn’t even be bothered to cook breakfast, let alone brew a pot of coffee. She would dare to accuse me. If we are having this argument, I am at least going to get fed first.