Thanks for the word, Sheri Lane.
The bastard put the sour drops in my coffee again. Four, from the horrific taste, but there was no way I was giving him the satisfaction to vomit.
I swallowed that whole fucking coffee, one disgusting gulp at a time, and slammed the empty mug down on the counter.
"Have a nice day," said Bob.
"Fuck you," I said.
That got his attention, and I knew he'd won this round. Not much I could do about it now, but it was my turn to cook dinner.
I would definitely pick up some manure on the way home from the mill. Charlie's was best. Goat shit beats cow or pig or sheep shit any day.
As I threw on my jacket and scarf, I caught Bob picking his nose. There was no wipe--not on the table or the chair, or even his pants.
Yep, he was saving it.
Tomorrow's coffee was really going to suck balls.
