Marie Auxier

On the Corner of Greenwald and Dustinshire

Damnit Delia!” Thomas hit the brakes and the old Buick screeched to a stop. “Why do you have to do this?” Delia clasped her hands to her ears.

“God Thomas! My head is throbbing! Don’t break so hard!” She reached to the dashboard and switched off the radio.

“I was listening to the traffic report, you know,” Thomas snapped as he flipped on his turn signal.

“Just drive, Thomas,” Delia said. She put on her pink sparkly-rimmed sunglasses and began rummaging through her purse. 

“I wouldn’t have to drive you to your job if you hadn’t gotten completely clobbered last night and accidentally—” he hit the gas pedal and veered left “—misplaced your car keys.”

“Shut up Thomas. At least I have a job.”

“At least I know where my car keys are,” he replied.

“At least I don’t live at home anymore!”

“At least I don’t have to get drunk off my ass to feel better about myself.” Delia made an incomprehensible sound of frustration and surrendered by digging deeper into the recesses of her lime green purse.

“What the hell are you looking for anyway? What could you possibly not have in that giant thing?”

“Painkillers.”

“Oh, nice—put your seatbelt on, damnit—do you even remember what happened last night?”

“No. Do you?”

“No! I wasn’t there!”

“Of course you weren’t.”

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