Promises, Promises

Never skimp on unwanted advice. They'll thank you. Or they should.

The rain rattled Sue's windows and her brain. She felt a migraine coming and Bob was doing his best to encourage it. This morning she found his whiskers in the sink, trapped in dry shaving cream. His deodorant on the toilet lid and the deodorant lid on top of the medicine cabinet.

All of his underwear was stained with skid marks, but the toilet paper tube sat empty on the roller. Not to mention the ashtray he spilled on the bedspread because he smoked his cigar while reading.

She worked her way through the house, straightening the tables and collecting a half dozen coffee mugs and half-dozen beer empties that appeared overnight. But the muddy boots on her clean tile three feet away from the door mat was the last straw.

His underwear was stained with skid marks, but the toilet paper tube sat empty on the roller. Not to mention the ashtray he spilled on the bedspread because he smoked his cigar while reading.

Sue grabbed Bob's muddy boots and hurled them outside the house, into the yard. She shouted at the kitchen. "I've told you a thousand times, leave your boots at the door."

Bob poured her a cup of tea. "Won't happen again," he promised as he mixed digitalis with the sugar in her tea.

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Wry noir author Phillip T. Stephens wrote Cigerets, Guns & Beer, Raising Hell, the Indie Book Award winning Seeing Jesus, and the children's book parody Furious George. Follow him @stephens_pt.