Waving Not Drowning

It sounded like the hose was pointed directly at his window. Full blast. The kitchen rang with the rising hiss of an unexpected summer storm. The best kind. Hot and humid, a tropical rainforest in the middle of the city. Paul heard the thunder and watched Billy vibrate in his sleep, paws twitching a slow motion gallop, a scattered, off beat cantor. Gets him out of chores for now. Thank you, global warming. Can't very well trim the hedge with the electric weedwacker while it's storming out now, can he? Or pinch off the new growth and tie up the weeping boughs. I mean, it's not like he WANTS to get electrocuted. Not today, at least. Why Glenda wanted all this property to manage, Paul will never understand. There's not a landscaping bone in his body. Sure, they had romanticized the idea of living off the land together, growing their own herbs and heirloom tomatoes, handpicking pears from a backyard tree. He never dreamed they'd actually do it. "H

God damn, she's driving me crazy. On and on and on. The incessant wail of her screamed-sung anthem blasts from the speakers. The desk is shaking. She sounds like a ferret on fire. Jesus woman, put a sock in it before I drown you in someone else's sorrows. Two months, that was the deal. One hundred and thirty two days, 14 hours and 16 minutes later, she has completely worn out her welcome. My hospitality hit the road after the neighbours left a threatening note regarding her compunction for spontaneous late night drum circles. On the front lawn. With an old marching band bass drum she found at the Sally Ann down on Fourth. At least the constable looked good in a uniform. I've tried. I really really tried. Two sets of 600 thread count sheets stained to oblivion, one incinerated crepe pan left in the oven and set to broil, nearly burning down the house. Shades of pink in all my whites. Inhaling the final bar of my emergency crisis chocolate stash while using t