Jakobia stumbled into the kitchen wearing her Big Daddy Brawler t-shirt and blood-stained cotton panties. Doogie was singing along with Conway Twitty. Conway Twitty had been dead for a few years but on the cheery yellow plastic radio that was perched on the counter in between the Hello Kitty cookie jar and box of Frosted Flakes Conway Twitty was immortal. He was a minor god expressing his aching lust, his bittersweet longing for an unattainable woman. It was only make-believe, after all.
"Good morning, angel dumpling. I made cinnamon toast for you," Doogie chirped.
"I hate cinnamon toast! I hate Conway Twitty!" Jakobia threw the radio at the wall. It broke into a few pieces. The batteries tumbled out.
"Somebody got up on the wrong side of bed this morning."
"Both sides of the bed are wrong when you are married to someone who makes cinnamon toast and sings along with Conway Twitty. I did not sign up for this shit."
"Don't be mean to me. I'm a good guy."
"You're an idiot. I'm sorry. I don't mean to hurt your feelings. But my god. We have been married for three years and you have no idea who I am. I'm going for a drive. I need some cigarettes."
"You don't smoke, hon."
"I do now."
Jakobia was civil about it. She did not slam the door.
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