THWAP. “Catsup,” Hershel yells. “Is that really too much to ask?” The plate smacks the wallpaper, the meatloaf sticking, the plate crashing to the floor. “Meshuggina,” Judith says. ‘Two year olds, I know two year olds more flexible.” Her chair shrieks like a leaf rake on a blackboard as she shoves backward and thumps out of the kitchen. “What? After all I do and do and do for you, catsup I don’t get,” he calls after the wife. “Had too much onion anyway. You call that meatloaf? Heartburn loaf.” He stares at the slab of meatloaf slithering down the foil paper. Foil paper, Judith put up foil paper. “What, you think this is Florida?’ She walked out on him when he asked; she’s getting expert at it, this walking out. Silver foil. Shlock. Got no…
“Suburban Legends” by Joan Connor
