He waited until the front door clicked shut. Then he waited a few beats more. She had a habit of forgetting things.
“Lot on my mind,” she’d say. “Not easy being the breadwinner.”
He laid the last t-shirt atop the neatly folded pile. A kept man, rotting away in suburbia.
“Who else is gonna support us?” she’d ask. “You?”
She’d regret talking to him like that.
He stepped into the garage and opened the door to her BMW. He turned the key and the engine roared. He ignored the gearshift, slowly closing his eyes instead.
She would regret it all.
The Weekday One Hundred 