He goes into the house through the back door off the kitchen, sets the bag of McDonald’s junk food onto the counter. He immediately goes to the refrigerator, grabs a bottle of beer, pops the top, drinks down half of it while standing inside the open door.
“Pumpkin, is that you?” he hears coming from the living room.
Wendy.
Just the nasally timber of her voice is enough to make his veins burn. Like an injection of the purest, pink, embalming fluid.
“Who the hell do you think it is? Your boyfriend?” He laughs at that one as if he can’t get over his own humor. Like a boyfriend, much less ever getting laid or getting out of bed again for that matter, is a remote possibility for her.
“Stop it with your mean mouth, Pumpkin,” she insists. “I’m sick, in case you haven’t noticed.” Then, a
