At the last minute, I changed “lazy” to “dreamy.” Middle-aged women might not like the implication that they are lazy just because once in a while they get a decent night’s sleep—just because once in a blue moon their husbands might drag themselves out of bed before them and mow the goddamned lawn. Jeff’s car was in my driveway when I arrived home. He’d let himself in, and Geraldine was curled up at his side as he sat in the darkening living room. “How sweet,” I said. “She likes you better than me. Where’s Wayne?” “Sleeping on your bed. I gave both dogs a walk.” “At the same time? How’d that go?” Jeff shrugged and petted Geraldine. “Fine. Wayne couldn’t care less about Boober. More of a priority for him was smelling that rotting stump in front of that red house down the street. I also took out your trash, by the way. Because it smelled like old Fancy Feast.” “Thanks,” I said, looking through my mail and hoping he’d skip the crazy-cat-lady comments.
