Grabbing hold of the plastic bucket under the sink, Herman pulls on his heavy-duty rubber gloves and carries the bucket and the disinfectant into the living room. Even he is taken aback by the rank smell his wife has produced.
“It’s all my fault, Wendy,” he says, feeling genuine remorse. “I should have made it home earlier. But that doesn’t give you the right to yell at me. Your obesity weighs heavy on you, but it’s a terrible burden on me too.”
Her face is swollen and red, both from the constant tears and the toxicity of her system.
“Just clean me, please, please, please clean me for the love of God,” she begs.
He goes around the bed, sets the cleaning tools on her table, pushes aside the wrappers from the now entirely consumed box of Pop Tarts. A phone rings. He pats his jacket po
