Note: I didn't realize until just now that Spumoni is a type of ice cream too. Thanks and credit to Jim Lang for "Smashed."
Disclaimer: I own nothing! Thanks for reading. ;)
Darling you left my heart
In pieces on the floor
So tell my why shouldn't I
Break some things of yours…
At least one picture frame was ruined. He couldn't tell if it was one of the nice ones. Several more had simply slid off the walls. The lamp shade was hanging off at a sickening angle, still swinging grotesquely, like a broken limb.
He shook his head, exhausted. His voice finally cracked to let out a harsh, "We should… clean this place up…"
"Heh, guess we got a little carried away back there…" She had the decency to look ashamed.
He winced and picked a jagged shard out of his finger. When did that happen?
I'll smash your lamp, the antique chair
That stupid thing you always wear
I'll smash a vase, the radio
Those little teacups from Limoges…
He glanced with tired eyes around the room. Oh… Dark red wine was seeping across the floor from the softly lit doorway. All the wine.
She sighed a drained-sounding sigh, and the tiniest "sorry" escaped her lips.
"It's… okay…. You're totally… okay…"
"You sure?" She reached a tentative hand towards his shoulder but didn't quite complete the action.
"Yeah. Sure."
"I didn't mean it."
"I know."
"Yeah… well…"
"I'll let you take it back, just this one time…" He watched one corner of her mouth begin to suspiciously turn upwards so he lowered his voice gruffly in warning, "but only if you—"
A startled gasp shattered the peace and Arnold and Helga almost jumped out of their skins.
"Oh… oh my…." Phoebe's voice piped from the direction of the wrecked foyer, accompanied by the jingling of keys. "What… happened in here?"
"Shit, shit, shit…" Helga's hands were scrabbling at the knots in her—still lovely, he noted—hair.
Phoebe stepped cautiously into the living room and gasped again, louder. Mortified, her hands flew to her face, but she still seemed unable to resist the compulsion to peek through her fingers at the huge mess. Gerald was loudly backing into the room behind her carrying a large cardboard box, oblivious to the scene in front of her. He was saying, "Can you believe Jamie-O wanted to get rid of all these awesome—" as he bumped into the statue his wife had just frozen into. "Huh? Phoebe, what…"
Phoebe was livid. "That is it, we are taking our key back right now!"
"Well, whaddya know, Pheebs! Gerald!" Helga had clumsily seized the hand-made afghan from the sofa. "Welcome home!"
Arnold had thrown himself behind the overturned armchair, desperate to find a pillow or vase or something not completely destroyed to cover himself with.
Gerald was now standing idly in the doorway, mouth hanging open. He slowly swiveled his head toward the light blue curtains Phoebe had so painstakingly picked out, which were half torn off the rods.
"Let's just clarify something..." Phoebe had taken off her glasses, a terrible sign, and was deliberately cleaning them on the hemline of her sweater. Helga was scrambling to dig through the sofa cushions, looking desperately for something.
Gerald was catatonic by now. He had sunk onto the opposite armchair, still clutching the box, mouthing wordlessly as if in prayer, eyes clenched tightly shut.
"When we entrusted our—when we asked you to house-sit—it was with strictest understanding that…" If it weren't for her age and impeccable health, Phoebe very well may have been about to have a stroke.
Arnold tried to sink even lower behind the chair. "Phoebe, we're sorry, it'll never happen—"
"Never mind." Phoebe held up a hand to stop him and he clamped his mouth shut. With steely resolve she turned and spoke to her husband in a bizarrely upbeat tone, "Come on, Gerald, let's go get some Slausen's…" She tugged the heavy box out of his arms, unceremoniously plunked it onto the freshly scratched and pitted coffee table, and steered her spouse back towards the door by his limp arm. "And when we get back, this place better be cleaned up! Do I make myself clear?!"
"Yes, ma'am!" Helga elaborately saluted and snapped to attention, only to topple backwards over the sofa. She poked her tousled head around the side, and once she was sure her friend's back was turned, she stuck out her tongue.
"I saw that, Pataki! That goes for you too, Shortman!"
Your wacky paintings on the walls
Darling—POW! I'll smash 'em all!
Lover, it's just a game
Cupid can take the blame
The front door slammed, and the car shortly roared to life in the driveway.
"Hmff, would you get a load of that hypocrite..." Helga snorted and jerked a thumb over her shoulder as she climbed back over the couch. Arnold shook his head gently and laughed, remembering the comparatively minor incident that happened back at their friends' wedding.
The tires squealed and Arnold noted to his companion languidly from the floor that Phoebe should really be a little more careful.
"Arnold. This is Phoebe. Who drag raced. In college." Helga had finally found her dress and was unabashedly pulling it on over her head.
"Yeah…" He hoisted himself carefully upright. "She's going to murder us. By running us over." He cautiously stepped over the glossy puddle, pulled a mop out of the kitchen cabinet, and thrust it into her hand.
"Are you kidding me? You're the one who knocked over the wine shelf—"
"That was an accident! You're the one who sloshed your glass in my face—"
"I did not do that on purpose, I was distracted—"
"Oh yeah?"
The mop handle clattered noisily to the floor.
I'll take the place apart
But don't worry, I won't smash your heart!