An impatient rapping at
the door interrupted her daily soap marathon. “Coming,” she shouted, and left
the pot of pasta boiling over medium heat, conversations on the television
still audible. When she opened the door, she saw his disheveled hair and tired
eyes, despite his happy, wrinkled face.
“I’m home!”
She frowned. “You can’t
just live here whenever you want!” She fought him off when he reached out for
her hand, but gave in when he hugged her.
“I’m on the road again.
I hate it there.”
She stopped resisting. “You're an ass.
Just don’t bring your men here anymore.”
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