Bad Short Story 1

I probably shouldn’t be proud of taking care of this without any problems. Last time I forgot my pants and that obviously made for some frustration. This time, though, everything is taken care of. I’m slowly coming up the stairs, certain of the response I’ll get from my wife.

The door opens without me even reaching for my keys and there she is. My wife. Standing there with those beautiful, loving, patient eyes. Another Friday night and I’ve done it again. From the time she knows exactly where I’ve been. She asks me the same questions, already knowing how I’ll answer.

“Again?”

“I just had to do it.”

“Why can’t I go with you?”

“We each just have to do our own thing.”

“I can help.”

“No.”

Friday is actually the perfect time for me to get this issue out of the way. But it is something I need to do alone. It gives us a chance to spend the rest of the weekend together, uninterrupted from the thoughts that inevitably start creeping from the back of my head. It’s become habitual at this point and I think she is starting to just accept that.

I dump out the laundry on the bed and go about with the folding. Another two weeks and I’ll be at it again.

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