Recipe for Disaster
Sulking, that’s typical of him. He hasn’t spoken to me properly all day. It’s not fair. What can I do? How’s it me? It’s her fault.
Yesterday, after strutting back from ‘surveying his domain’ or whatever he does every day, he started whining. ‘Where’s my food?’ and ‘Are we really having that again?’
Well, he may think it’s idyllic here, but for home-making, it’s pretty primitive.
But I said I had a surprise for him, something new. Oh, he was eager enough to try it. He finished it too. All of it - none for me, then just fell fast asleep. Not a word of thanks. He snored too.
This morning he staggered off immediately, mumbling about a summons. He returned in a foul mood, moaning about his head, cussing about being evicted, then sat there groaning, head in his hands, while I packed.
So here we are, wandering aimlessly, looking for another place to stay and him blaming me. I said to him, it’s her. The other woman. Your ex wife. She said you liked the fermented juice of the fruit of that tree.
I can tell you, that’s the last time I take Lilith’s advice!
This was written for Cara Michaels' Menage Monday 49