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Milk on the Sofa

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“You had one job to do! Put it in the fucking goal! The goal, you asshole!”

Rajan rests two hands on the edge of the sink and raises his eyes to the ceiling in a prayer for patience. Wolfgang's been watching football for half an hour, and the volume and substance of his complaints have only escalated as it's gone along. There's a euphoric shout from the next room, and Rajan wonders if he should be offended that it sounds even more orgasmic than he did in bed last night.

Regardless, it's no cricket, so Rajan turns his own music up and sets about cleaning out the fridge. None of them are great cooks, and they keep losing perishables in the back of the shelf. Like the milk. That's gone off.

It takes him a little while to register the absence of noise from the next room, just the sound of the TV commentator and silence otherwise.

Rajan races for the living room, heart suddenly pounding. A silent Wolfgang is either sedated or deadly or badly intoxicated.

Like now, when Wolfgang's nearly arching off the sofa, blissed out and stretched taut, pushing up like he's grinding against a lover who isn't there.

Rajan clears his throat and tries to look stern. His eyes are a little too warm for stern. “Ask her to get some milk, would you?”

Wolfgang’s eyes open slowly, glassy and otherworldly. He's breathing hard and the rest of him is also hard, pressing tight against his fly.

“She says, suck it, husband.”

Rajan sighs with a fond smile. These idiots. Then he throws the empty milk carton over his shoulder and doesn't look back.

“Well, if she insists…”