I trod carefully, too carefully.
“Is that you?” a theatrical whisper asked from the top of the stairs.
“Of course it bloody is” I retorted irritably “Who the hell were you expecting?”
“I was expecting you home hours ago. Where have you been? It’s almost three in the morning!”
The whiny tone I didn’t need. I’d had too much to drink, I was tired and I still had to negotiate the impossibly-steep looking stairs to get to bed.
“Out” I answered petulantly.
“Well, you can sleep on the couch!” my husband said angrily, slamming our bedroom door in my face.