Spilt Beer

I was in the living room watching the television when John came in and sank down on the sofa. Without a word he swung his legs up and rested his feet on me. I don't actually mind when he does this, except when he'd been wearing his sneakers and walking around for too long and his feet got, well, slightly fragrant.

I met John 3 months ago at a local auction. He and another man were in a heated bidding war and I watched the entire episode with bated breath, silently rooting for John. He won. I Introduced myself after the auction and after a few days I moved in with him.

Strangely though, the move never met with any disapproval on anyone's part although John was much older than I was.

It's hard to understand what it was about John that attracted me so much to him. It wasn't that he was anything close to my idea of the paramount man. He was tall, though slight and he had a uneven, permanent five o'clock shadow. His hair tended to escape into little curls and sometimes defied all his efforts to comb it down.

He worked hard, as far as I could tell and would sometimes come home late, exhausted from his work at the office. He had a big account in a major advertising firm and his clients sometimes made requests that seemed highly ludicrous to me, but then, I don't know anything about advertising at all.

John leaned over and held out his beer. I took it and held it. It was cold and wet. That was one thing I disliked about John. I felt that he took me a little too much for granted. I don’t like holding things that are cold and wet. Water all over me.

Ten minutes later, John leans over and accidentally knocks the bottle over. Beer spills all over my nice dress. It was just one of those times I wished I could just get up and smack him hard.

I hate when he spills things on me. Doesn’t he know that liquids like beer can severely stain and damage antique coffee tables?