Something For The Weekend

‘The fucking floor’s in the skip!’ 

‘So what? You were away, I had to make some decisions’. 

She dares me to contradict her. I grip the steering wheel harder, watching my knuckles whiten like tropical islands. 

Fresh wrinkles are carving themselves into my forehead and my brain balks at the report from the noise of hammer and chisel. 

‘I was only gone a weekend!’ 

‘Maybe, but it seemed like you were never coming back,’ she says looking out the passenger window - seemingly more interested in a passing cyclist than the almost complete destruction over the road. 

‘If you leave like that, you can’t expect me to take your opinion into account anymore - if you ever had one’. 

Anger shoots like roman candles up my legs and explodes in my belly like an atom bomb. A horrible spluttering choke like a half vomit bubbles out my closing throat. I refuse to give in. 

‘Anyway, you can never walk out on me again now because there’s no front door’.