It was a Tuesday before all the regular Wednesday shit started to happen, so she was OK with not knowing where the fuck he was — or was she? She would be tomorrow because she wouldn’t be able to think of anything but chickens and conveyor belts and front-end loaders and shit.
“But this is not the time to be fucking around,” she said out loud over the blasting music to no one.
He had grown up running away from a momma with a fist full of pills and a fist full of fury, so he knew what it meant to piss off a woman. But what the fuck he thought as he drove to her sister’s house last night — “didn’t matter,” he will remember remembering when he can remember. “Didn’t matter,” he will say when he sees here, “didn’t matter; I was drunk; didn’t know what I was doing; couldn’t have known what I was doing.”
So, she went to sleep, having had this life before – having had this same thing last goddamn month. And he came home eventually – early in the morning Wednesday — but, too late to talk.
He smelled like whiskey, perfume, fast sex and fast food; she was walking out the door in thigh-high chicken killin’ boots.
She’d said, “this all has to stop.”
He said, “it will.”