The front door opens with a swift motion, his voice loud and assertive echoing throughout the house. He always did this when he didn’t have the best day at work and wasn’t going to talk about it. “Hey sweetheart,” He said as he let himself fall into the couch, “I’m starving, is dinner ready yet?”
He looked back at the kitchen door, and then proceeded to remove his leather gloves, stuffing them deep into his pockets. I look at the mirror that hung on the fridge, my makeup is caked and my hair is falling out of it’s bun. I wipe my slimy hands on the front of my apron; taking large, confident strides out towards the day room. “Almost ready,” I sung, leaning in to give him a peck on the lips, “It’s your favorite hun.”
His lips were soft and plump; they tasted like alcohol, specifically kentucky bourbon.
He looked up at me and grabbed my waist. Pulling me down onto his lap. “Let go of me, now.” I said sternly, my brows furrowed and my fist …show more content…
“You wouldn’t know good food if it kicked you in the behind. Take a bite, I promise that it’s good.” “No way, I’m not about to eat this mush. They serve better food at the Whore house downtown.” He yelled, swiping the plate off of the table, breaking the plate into a thousand pieces. “And that better be picked up by the time I get back.”
He grabbed his brown wool housecoat and exited from the house. Slamming the door behind him. I kneeled down at the broken plate that laid in a puddle of grease. The plate was fine china, with gold roses printed on it. I loved this plate because my father had bought it as a housewarming gift before he died of cancer. I looked at the pieces, a variety of sizes, picking up a couple to run my fingers over it’s jagged edges. I could put it back together if I had the time and the will to do so. “I’m tired of his shit,” I said tiredly, looking at the mess. “I’m tired of cleaning up his
He looked back at the kitchen door, and then proceeded to remove his leather gloves, stuffing them deep into his pockets. I look at the mirror that hung on the fridge, my makeup is caked and my hair is falling out of it’s bun. I wipe my slimy hands on the front of my apron; taking large, confident strides out towards the day room. “Almost ready,” I sung, leaning in to give him a peck on the lips, “It’s your favorite hun.”
His lips were soft and plump; they tasted like alcohol, specifically kentucky bourbon.
He looked up at me and grabbed my waist. Pulling me down onto his lap. “Let go of me, now.” I said sternly, my brows furrowed and my fist …show more content…
“You wouldn’t know good food if it kicked you in the behind. Take a bite, I promise that it’s good.” “No way, I’m not about to eat this mush. They serve better food at the Whore house downtown.” He yelled, swiping the plate off of the table, breaking the plate into a thousand pieces. “And that better be picked up by the time I get back.”
He grabbed his brown wool housecoat and exited from the house. Slamming the door behind him. I kneeled down at the broken plate that laid in a puddle of grease. The plate was fine china, with gold roses printed on it. I loved this plate because my father had bought it as a housewarming gift before he died of cancer. I looked at the pieces, a variety of sizes, picking up a couple to run my fingers over it’s jagged edges. I could put it back together if I had the time and the will to do so. “I’m tired of his shit,” I said tiredly, looking at the mess. “I’m tired of cleaning up his