Three sheets to the wind before he even walks in.
He grabs another beer and peeks into the pot on the stove.
Cold spaghetti inside.
He doesn’t want it.
He hurls it across the room at her.
No leftovers for us tomorrow.
Change the pronoun in last line, and this tale becomes an ominous threat.
He’s such a nice guy, does my subconscious want to deal some Karmic Justice?
The threat was always there. This isn’t a work of fiction.
So sad. I suspect a beating will follow. She will be sorry, but he won’t care. Later he won’t remember. I lived this. Just glad I lived through it. Course in my case the spaghetti was hot with all the fixings. Blessings. ♥
Glad you lived through it too. Sorry that you can relate. Blessings back to you as well.
I’m left wondering if the “it” he hurls is the spaghetti or the pot.
It was both. And now I shall shake my fist at unclear pronouns.
Jerk. Didn’t deserve the spaghetti in the first place 😛
Nope, he did not.
Damn. It’s the resignation in the last line that catches at my heart.
That last line. ***
that word, ‘hurls’…
so sad. if its nonfiction, i’m sad to read it and hope for healing…
thanks so much.
Stuff like this takes me back in time and makes me rage at no one really knowing all of it or doing anything about it. I’m sorry.
Don’t be sorry. (But I still appreciate it.)
Born and raised in a pumpkin patch, Michelle Longo maintains a shrine to her kid's lost socks and runs a meat inspector support group in her spare time.
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