He wasn’t seriously asking me that. I folded the page I’d been lying in bed pretending to read and stood. Not like I could focus with the pings and pows coming from his side of the room anyway.
“Are you crippled?” I asked.
“No, but I’m busy here. The garbage truck comes in like ten minutes.”
Busy? I knew exactly what busy meant. It meant that Mr. Video-Game-Freak had almost finished level three of that stupid-as-shit game he bought last week. He’d keep playing until he beat it, or I broke the fucking thing in half. Mr. Thirty-four-year-old-jobless-loser, who plays online with ten-year-olds all day long while I went to work—twice—to support his sorry ass.
Like a good wife, or a giant moron, take your pick, I walked to the kitchen, stepping over the pizza box left in the middle of the living room floor on my way. Flipping on the light, I blinked, groaning at the mess I’d have to clean before I went to bed. The red formica countertop dripped white goop from a jar of mayo that tipped over. In the butt-sweaty humidity, it had turned to a whitish liquid nightmare. Next to it, the loaf of bread I brought home that afternoon lay open, a couple of slices peeking out of the torn plastic bag, slowly going stale so that I’d have to toss it and buy another, wasting more money because of that fucktard in the bedroom.
What the hell did he do all day? I opened the door under the sink to grab the overflowing little bag that he’d never change not even if his life depended on it, and cringed. “Ugh.”
The smell made my eyes water and my stomach revolted, pushing a gag up to my throat. I slammed the door closed and turned around. Enough was enough. I had to work in the morning, and again after dinner. Twice. Two jobs. Every damn miserable day. What did he do? Not even one. He couldn’t even put the damn trash in the bag.
I reached down, yanking a goopy mayo covered drawer open, and picked out a large black bag. I’d take the trash out all right, motherfucker.
Stomping through the kitchen and to the living room, I rounded the corner to the bedroom, where the jackass would be playing his stupid game, oblivious to the world around him. I pushed the door open, and stood for a moment, adjusting my eyes to the semi-darkness. He wasn’t even wearing pants. Jesus.
“Hey, baby.” He looked up from the computer, his brown hair stood on end and he arched to scratch his boxer clad ass.
I didn’t trust myself to speak. Instead I walked across the room to the corner where my husband’s world plugged into a rectangular power bar. Bending, I tugged each cord from the bar and tossed it.
“Hey! What are you—?”
I held up the trash bag and pointed at him. “Not a goddamn word. Hear me? I don’t mind making more than one trip.”
I picked up the keyboard and stuffed it into the bag. He said nothing. I picked up the modem and shoved it in as well, and still he remained silent. I couldn’t fit the monitor in so I left it, but I grabbed every cord, wire, and attachment I could find, breathing heavily as I stood to glare at him.
His eyes widened, but he sat in his chair, not attempting to take anything from the bag. He smiled then and shrugged. “So, your laptop is in the spare room?”
I swung the bag. Twice.
Trash problem solved.