“Is that you, honey?” He calls from the kitchen.
She dumps her bag and keys, kicks her pumps off, stumbles to the open kitchen door, and leans on the doorframe.
“Whadaday,” she says. “Think Ima godo bed.”
He turns around from the stove, scrubbing-brush in hand, the baby monitor clipped onto the apron pocket.
“I thought maybe we could have a little time?” He says.
“Nah,” she says. “Me’n’t’girls went to club ‘ve early meeting.”
She wrestles to get her bra unhooked and out one of the shirt sleeves.
“Explains the varsity lockerroom smell,” he sighs.
But she’s already gone.