Page 104 of Short Stack 3

“Again?”

“They had this argument last month. The names may have changed in that scenario, but the scene remains the same.”

“Should we be worried? Will they be okay?”

“They do not like interruptions to their disputes. You can take my word forthat. I used to try to calm things down but was roundly attacked by both of them for interfering. They like to scream and throw things, and I am convinced by now that they both enjoy it. Tomorrow, they will be as happy as clams. My father once confided in me that their arguments made the sex afterwards feel almost transcendental.”

“I’m trying to imagine the judge having that conversation with me, but my mind shies away from the very thought.”

Something smashes against the wall, and we both flinch instinctively and look up.

“You absolute cunt. I hope your shrivelled little prick rots and drops off!” Dorothy shrieks.

Mags and I immediately wince as if synchronised.

“It’s hard to believe that the lady I met tonight with the frilly collar on her blouse has the vocabulary of a drunken sailor on shore leave,” I muse, and he laughs.

“Maybe that is why my father married her. I must confess, Laurie, it has always puzzled me, but you may have inadvertently put your finger on the answer.”

“Well, you know what I can do with my little finger.”

“Wind me around it?”

“I was thinking of the way I massage your prostate.”

He grins. “That is a good thing, my love.Neverlet anyone tell you that you lack talent.”

“I wish I’d never married you,” his father roars. “You have the brainpower of a dormouse and the conversational ability of an incontinent parrot.”

A door slams nearby, and the pictures on our wall rattle. Mags groans, rolling onto his back and pulling the sheet over his head. “He is only doing this so he can write a poem about it,” he says in a glum voice through the cotton barrier.

I pull the sheet back, looking at his ruffled hair with affection. “If you were writing me a poem, what would it be?”

“What rhymes with aggravating?”

“Please don’t give up your day job.”

“And I suppose you’re so intellectual!” Dorothy screams. “Your poetry is boring. I’ve read better on a limerick in a fucking cracker.”

“Bam!” I mime a tennis swing. “Game, set, and marital match.”

Mags pokes his head out of the covers. His hair is standing up in a very endearing way. “You are enjoying this, yes?”

“Is it wrong to say yes? I’m asking for a friend.”

His dad’s voice booms, “I’d only be bothered about that if you didn’t think reading gives you wrinkles. News flash — you’ve already got them. Even your vagina has crease marks.”

“Bastard! You couldn’t satisfy a dead person.”

“Well, I’ve had plenty of experience bedding you, Dorothy.”

Mags groans. “Speaking from experience, this is only going to get more graphic. Could you possibly drown them out?”

I pat his head sympathetically. “Where’s my phone? I’ll put some music on.”

“Ah, there is no Wi-Fi in the house.”

I gape at him. “What?”

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