Aftermath

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“Coffee!” he croaks pathetically.

I push his cup across the counter.

He shovels in five spoons of sugar and takes a gulp, swearing because it’s hot.

“Rough night?” I ask sweetly.

The patented Kinney death glare’s augmented by the reddened, dark-circled eyes of a major hangover.

I shrug.  “Self-inflicted.  No sympathy.”

He gulps down the rest of the cup, grabs the back of my neck and kisses me roughly.

“It’s not self-inflicted if it’s self defense,” he claims as he heads for the door..  “It’s the only fucking way any self respecting fag can survive dinner with their fucking mother-in-law.”
 

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