Hotdog Night

She poured the red wine. We smelt hot dogs cooking in the kitchen. She looked in my eyes romantically. She let out a sigh. The mice crawled round in the rafters.

She said "Damn those things," and got the broom and started yelling. Her hair was a toss with the whapping and her face got flushed. She sat back down all the better and resumed the look -the look of love, but the doorbell rang and she screamed in rage. A woman just wanting hotdogs and wine and some time alone with her man, but no.

To the door with her and she brought her broom. At the door was a man selling vacuums. She whittled the broom handle into a point while he spoke and lodged it into his heart. "My house is clean enough you, thank!" She yelled and slammed the door hard.

I, meanwhile, had taken the opportunity to hide and got her dog to try gnawing in the ropes around my arms. He was a helpful beast, but none to smrt. She let the devil fly when she saw I had gone and took to slamming cupboards and slamming wine.

"Hurry Muffin," Muffin was his name. "We haven't much time." Muffin looked at me like "I'm going as fast as I can. At least you don't have to live here." I sympathized with him. But he wasn't fast enough, and she not drunk enough: the stairs being no match for her. Sure, a bit o' wobbling, but down the wretch came, and o if I wasn't sore in the morning.