"I don't know," James shrugged without looking over at Pam. "Teach them a lesson. Something like that."
"I don't think that'll teach them a lesson."
James disagreed. Said nothing. Today wasn't a time to argue. All he wanted was a cold
beer
. He went over to the fridge. There were five left in there. Just like last night. A few years back James would sometimes come home from wor and be livid to find that there'd be too few beers in the fridge for him. He'd yell at Pam. "You drank all my fucking beer!"
They didn't argue over that anymore. She couldn't drink beer anymore.
James let out a refreshing sight after a gulp.
"You bastard."
To be honest, he didn't like beer as much anymore either. After watching Pam shrivel away as the
disease
wasted her away, he felt closer to his own mortality. That he too would die one day. And that these beers were getting him there faster.
And if he were one of those lucky ones who'd live past 80, he felt guilty. That not everybody made it like so. Thinking of these inconvenient things made beer not taste or feel all that great.
He used to live for this. He lived for two things. And two things only. To drink. And to fuck. And he would get into a fight if any one got in the way of either. None of his old friends would ever believe that James Peck had become domesticated. Sharing a house with a bedridden lady. Paying all the bills. Cooking meals. And cleaning the house. His friends would reply like "you must have the wrong James Peck. No damn James Peck I know would ever do any of those things."