by Robert Walton
It’s one of those things where the beer bottle is suddenly on its side and foam is rolling out over the floor beside the couch like a flood. It’s one of those things where hulking drips of water nail the kitchen sink with heavy one-fingered taps. The clock is pounding on the living room wall and the cloudy sky is humming a tune, soft and off-key. And I’m spread on the couch with a refrigerator buzz and a bathrobe at 8:17am. In my mind, I wake her with lofty opinions about the status of her fidelity. There’s movement inside me and there’s the sense of blazing into the bedroom; instead, I turn to the kitchen, stumbling, seeking a cloth to wipe the foam from her carpet.
Robert Walton lives in Hamilton, Ontario. Visit him here.