The young redhead came home from work and gave the old man the hairy eyeball. Women.
She had been busting her ass all day long trying to save babies and make the world a better place and give peace a chance. The old man was home just lounging about, trying not to kill anybody. There’s a balance in life. She knew the truth about him – a lot of it anyway – and somehow hoped to tip the scales. A deli manager’s thumb.
I vacuumed the rug, the old man told his wife the moment she walked into the house. Like he was guilty, but he wasn’t. Five evenings a week, at the first smell of her, the dog showed his happiness by shimmying upside down in the middle of the living room. The old man wanted her to see the marks across the rug, like freshly-mowed field of a baseball stadium. When the dog rolled around, he left a mess of hair, outlined as if a homicide victim had just been removed from the crime scene.
Why did everything seem to come back to that. The old man caught himself. Crazy.
You look guilty, she said. Gave him a look. You caught me, the old man admitted. What did you do now? Should I be worried?
Yes, you should. I watched eight hours of college basketball today and I plan to do the same thing tomorrow.
“March Madness, baby!”
I told you, never call me, baby. Gave him a hairy eyeball and went to get out of her clothes.
The old man called after her – Kill anybody today?
Wanted to. Couple of times.
I know just how you feel, he said, and went to mix a drink.