Iris Quintier hated Sunday mornings. They reminded her of church as a child, learning the many ways she was headed straight to hell. She wasn’t there yet, just felt like it. The bottle of Beefeater’s looked good. Where was the vermouth? And the olives? Life was always brighter with a martini.
Time to find the newspaper—the front section should be easy to digest, kinda like a martini chaser. She got half-way through the first page and then threw the paper across the room. Goddamn it, why did Caleb never take her side? Why did the few meals they had together anymore always have to end in an argument? She rubbed her temples. Damn headache.
At the sound of a car outside, she wondered if Caleb had changed his mind. She meandered over to the curtains and pulled back one corner. It wasn’t Caleb
