She was always tired. She was unsure if it was from being alone for years, in the nearly-empty house, or from working the graveyard shift, or both. She was plump and apple-cheeked, average, not a Big Beautiful Woman; cute, not pretty. For the umpteenth time, she shoved her mahogany bangs out of her eyes, thinking absently that she really should get her hair cut soon.As if by some innate sense, or perhaps smelling the tuna she always cracked open, her two cats and latest rescue kitten scampered into the kitchen, weaving and ducking about her feet, meowing piteously for attention and rubbing against her ankles and her hands and face, as she set their bowls down.“Silly goobers,” she muttered. “I would never let you starve.” With a skritch under the chin for the tortiseshell, and a few strokes behind his head, she turned next to the multicolour tabby and stroked her protruding stomach, her ears, her tail, and her back. With a kiss to the forehead of the tiny black kitten, barely ten. " With that, Pete stormed out of the house to sit on a lounger on the back patio."What? Wha'da you mean divorce?" she called after him. She tried to stand up, but was so dizzy she just sat back down.A half hour later Susan followed him outside, showered and dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. Her eyes were bloodshot, her complexion still a sickly yellow. When she sat next to him he caught a whiff of the vomit she had left in some toilet. She started to sit down, then got up, staggering back into the house, returning a moment later wearing sunglasses.Leaning her head back, she put both hands to her forehead to cup her head like she was afraid it was coming apart."Margaritas getting you down, Susan?" Pete asked in a very quiet voice. "You must have chugged down nearly twenty. Tends to give one a real reminder the next morning, doesn't it?"Susan gave no hint that she had heard him, just held her head, groaned and tried not to move her body.After a few minutes, Pete got up and moved back.
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