The Man Across The Road

My wife was at the window again.

“Oh my god,” she said.

I was lying on the sofa, which itself lay across one side of our cramped living room, watching one perma-tanned floozy tell another perma-tanned floozy in no uncertain terms that she was trash and that she’d always be trash and that her spoiled lineage led all the way back to a shack in the woods where men would go for a good time.