A Fleeting Conjecture of Domesticity

(photo by davy carren)

Sally snapped at Rodney, “Are you on drugs?”

“No….” He paused, gawked at the empty space between us, shook his head and gleefully rued: “I wish I were on drugs.”

He’d picked up the cat by the middle and was lifting the poor guy up and down as if the little feline were a barbell.

“Put him down, Shitter.”