Kit Walker, usually all smiles, threw his grease rag down with total disgust. Out here in the garage, overhead light swinging, he'd had a little time to reflect on that day's argument. What did she want from him, a liver?
The station wasn't doing much business lately and Alma desperately wanted a new dress. She'd mentioned it every day for weeks now and today he'd lost his shit a little bit.
"Dresses!" He sniggered some and then made like he was smacking himself in the face. Did he really need to fork over twenty seven bucks for what was basically a long shirt? Alma sure thought so. Jesus!
He did want Alma happy, though. That was the thing. A fancy dress would make her feel happy. Maybe it would ease the ache she carried about the neighbors being frosty with her all of the time. These weren't really the best of times for a couple like them.
The woman was all he had (aside from the garage) and her smiles were always a warm balm for his troubled soul. He'd wanted more than this mediocre life, that was for sure. But what ya gonna do? Zilcho. Nada. Nothing. Not at the moment anyway.
Right now he was just poking around out here. Busy work. He didn't have the money. He hadn't told her that. What he'd said was more like a suggestion that dresses weren't important and that they didn't wipe their butts with gold paper, last he checked. He'd been a doucheball about it. A real suckface.
How would he tell her the truth? She was an understanding woman, no doubts on that, but he wasn't the type to admit to money troubles. Even to his own wife. It just made him feel soulsick. Seeing that sweet face crumple just might be his final undoing, God knew it. He sighed.
There was nothing left to do out here. He'd picked up a few bits of litter, swept the place clean, not once, but twice, and had gathered every rag he could find. And all of that within the span of ten minutes. Mostly he'd just squeezed his hands together and wished he was a better provider. He spent a second or two telling himself he was poor and thank God he wasn't ugly.
No, no. That wasn't helping the situation at all. Sometimes he really did wonder what she saw in him. Could it be the sweet grin and nice ass? It certainly wasn't his wallet. "Shut UP, Walker," he whispered inside his head. Just shut it!
Kit had toyed with the idea of asking someone for a loan. Nothing too steep but something substantial. A buddy, perhaps. Not that he had many. He'd determined he was too proud for that sort of thing. Even if someone would agree to it, he couldn't. Just couldn't.
Hopefully business picked up soon. That pretty lady waiting for him at home deserved a new dress. Hell, at least a dozen of them. She really did. Hadn't she said it was twenty something dollars? They'd miss out on food. His stomach ran him, he could admit it.
He'd have less bacon. Less coffee. Less of those little cinnamon buns he liked so well. Well, they hadn't had any cinnamon buns in a long time and truth be told, coffee gave him the squirts in a bad way. It just tasted so good! And Alma loved him.
She put up with his teeth grinding. The way he had trouble saying "succotash" and about a million other things. He snored. He peed on the seat. He grabbed her boobs while she was sleeping, licked her face just to be funny, hid her books to watch her search for them. She took all of this in stride.
God, she was beautiful. Just thinking about her body made him hard. And wouldn't she look nice in a sunny yellow dress, panty line playing peek a boo? She sure would. It was time to go in. The moon was hanging low, trees shifting in the wind. He breathed deeply as he locked up, shoved his cap down low. The nights were dreamy this time of year. Never in his life had he ever thought about a sweet wind until now. It was so sweet.
It felt good to be alive. Maybe she wouldn't be too upset about the dress. He could buy her one as soon as things got better. She'd wrap him up in those silky arms, kiss his neck and whisper into his ear. It would be ok. Alma was reasonable. And she knew money. Watching her figure out the grocery cash made his head all but spin sometimes.
The front door was ajar. That was odd. Alma was compulsive when it came to locking doors. One time he'd forgotten to lock up and she'd pitched a fit. They weren't even going very far. Wow, she'd gotten so worked up. They rushed home and she locked the place up tight. He never forgot again after that. He called her name as he shrugged out of his jacket. Where was she? It wasn't like her to not be right there.
The living room was dark and quiet. Kitchen, same. As he walked toward their bedroom he wondered if she'd fallen asleep on him. Mad, probably. He hadn't been very nice. He felt bad about that. Why was he so rude to her sometimes? She deserved so much more than he could give to her.
Maybe that was why. He never intended to say those nasty things. And he thought about them probably long after she let it all go. He dwelled like no other. "Alma?" The question rang out into the dark house as he turned the knob to their room.
He didn't see her. The bed was smooth. Her nightgown was draped over the chair, shoes tucked under it. He could smell her perfume and the soap she used in the tub. Wait. The closet door wasn't totally shut. Was she in there?
Why would she be hiding in a closet? Well, why not. He pulled the closet open and there she was. Her eyes, the prettiest he'd ever seen, were closed in sleep. She was wearing her towel and by the wet gleam on her arms he could tell she'd passed out before she'd properly dried herself. What had she been doing in here?
The closet looked like it always did. A few dresses on bent hangers, slacks and pleated shirts. A pair of slippers and her prized green bathrobe, soft and worn. He touched her thigh. Rubbed it. She opened her eyes and called him baby. It was gonna be ok, he thought. He followed her to the bed, watched her drop the towel. It would always be ok. She was his Alma and he'd buy her a million dresses one day. No, a thousand. That he would.