After a long hard week full of days he would burst through the door, his fatigue hidden behind a smile. There was an icy jug of Tuscan Whole Milk, 1 Gallon, 128 fl oz in his right hand. With his left hand he would grip my waist – I was always cooking dinner – and press the cold frostiness of the jug against my arm as he kissed my cheek. I would jump, mostly to gratify him after a time, and smile lovingly at him. He was a good man, a wonderful husband who always brought the milk on Friday, Tuscan Whole Milk, 1 Gallon, 128 fl oz.
Then there was that Friday, the terrible Friday that would ruin every Friday for the rest of my life. The door opened, but there was no bouyant greeting – no cold jug against the back of my arm. There was no Tuscan Whole Milk in his right hand, nor his left. There came no kiss. I watched as he sat down in a kitchen chair to remove his shoes. He wore no fatigue, but also no smile. I didn’t speak, but turned back to the beans I had been stirring. I stirred until most of their little shrivelled skins floated to the surface of the cloudy water. Something was wrong, but it was vague wrongness that no amount of hard thought could give shape to.
Over dinner that night I casually inserted,”What happened to the milk?”
“Oh,”he smiled sheepishly, glancing aside,”I guess I forgot today.”
That was when I knew. He was tired of this life with me, tired of bringing home the Tuscan Whole Milk, 1 Gallon, 128 fl oz. He was probably shoveling funds into a secret bank account, looking at apartments in town, casting furtive glances at cashiers and secretaries and waitresses. That’s when I knew it was over. Some time later he moved in with a cashier from the Food Mart down the street. And me? Well, I’ve gone soy.
@Anonis : I’m sure everyone has read that review on Amazon.com months ago. I’m beginning to wonder if you have plagiarized every longwinded story that you’ve written. Is there some incest erotica writer out there that has not been getting credit for the stories you’ve been telling about various relatives?
I shake my head at you now, and will do so forevermore.
@Mcowles: Congratulations. Yes. They’re all stolen. Google “Uncle James Robertson” and you’ll find all my posts are part of a one mans struggle living through a life of sexual molestation involving uncles, feces and government experiments involving penis size. Last I checked it was on the 16th page of results, but that was some time ago.
Also, Tuscan Whole Milk is a year+ old–not months. My Uncle Harold was one of the first to write a review, and half the internets people have read his review involving urine, vomit, bile and excrement. With this superior fact in place, it makes my internet cools far superior to your internet cools.