Out

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.

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