I sink onto the red couch in my office, the torn, stained cushion barely soft anymore. My cats, Ma and Pa, jump into my lap, nuzzling my face and hands. Their black and white tuxedo fur blurs as a fresh round of tears falls. Out of habit, I open the small fridge in my office.
“Son of a bitch!” I shout. The cats hiss.
I stalk out to the kitchen. The fridge door smacks the wall: empty. Cupboards, behind the stove and fridge, in the junk drawer, even the god damned mouth wash is gone.
“Fucking hell!” I shout.
“Are you alright?”
I whip around, breath heaving in my chest. Jacoby stands behind me, brushing dirt from his hands into the trash.
“Where’s my stuff?” I tower over him, one inch taller and twice as mad.
“I saw you come home. Bit early in the day, isn’t it?” he asks, his voice sharp, accusing. “Get fired?”
I rear my first back. The last of my whiskey got me home, but it wasn’t enough and I begin to sober up.
“You going to divorce me if I did?”
He ducks when I swing. “Third damn DUI in the last three months and this one finally cost you your job. You either get your ass into some kind of AA or rehab or I walk.”
He stomps away and I stand there a second. His truck tears down the gravel. That’s the first time he’s threatened to walk.
Story copyright @Aightball
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