She looked at him. Sitting in his easy chair. Playing Monday morning quarterback. It’s easy to point out the mistakes of others. To laugh at yourself is hard. A scotch was in his hand. The morning news was on.

Clothes were being folded from a big pile on the couch. Underwear with holes them. Shirts with permanent stains. Pants that no longer stayed up around his drooping waist. A low pressure was coming up from the South.

He was starting to doze off. She removed the rocks glass from his hand. Placed it on a table next to him. The old man was mumbling in his sleep. Something about a cat he saw in the driveway. Talked about offering it milk. Started snoring.

The sound was turned down on the TV. She watched news anchors move their lips. A man and a woman. With perfect hair. Sometimes, a serious face. Other times, a nice smile. He wore a tie. She, a low cut sweater. Her lipstick was red.

Whore, the old woman whispered as she dug into more clothes. She looks like a whore. She’s no Barbara Walters, the wife mumbled, waking up the old man, who reached for his drink.

What are you yelling about?

Go back to sleep.

He sipped his cocktail and closed his eyes. She continued folding laundry.