He wasn't talking to her again. Stupid man. All men are stupid. Didn't he know she'd gone through hell at work today? Twenty-six years of marriage and he couldn't sense that she was upset? That's just impossible. He knew, but he was too damned busy watching Paris Hilton trudge around in mud dressed in a mini-skirt and high heels. He had to know she was fake--all of them are. She was the only real thing he had and right now she was really in need of an ear.
The show ends and he walks into the kitchen where she sits at the bar and throws the empty bag of chips away. She's reading a romance novel again. Doesn't she know that that crap isn't real? No man is really like that. It's ridiculous. She's glaring at him through downcast eyes over her book. He turns to look at her back on the way out of the kitchen, stops, stares at it for a few minutes and goes back to the television. He plops down on the couch. Twenty six years and she still couldn't tell he was upset? Didn't she know that he had a horrible day at work? Was she even going to ask about his day?
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