He feels yucky tonight. At today’s open house, there had been a couple with their young child situated on carpet, said kid puking on one of its corners. “I told you we should have left him at home...” one mom had said, the other saying, “...We can’t afford a sitter, remember?” Wes had chosen not to bother with his quips (’Then how can you afford this place...’) despite his patience being thin, surprised with himself when they all managed to get out of there not feeling so sheepish about the incident. The homeowner had understood, telling Wes that “it happens” and she could just replace it anyway. “I’m glad it wasn’t a chain reaction of puking,” he had half-joked, but no one had left the area amused.
A shower and and an hour of experimenting in his kitchen later, Wes is still fixated on what should have been dinner by now, paying more attention to HBO Max in the background. It’s at low volume, which should be fine until it apparently isn’t? The doorbell ringing is more obnoxious than Wambsgans being a suck-up and a bully back-to-back. Wes decides to keep on his apron, mostly so whoever’s at his front door can take a hint that he’s busy (will they really think that, though?) making... well, none of your business (it’s not any good).
Wes opens the door and frowns, if he wasn’t already. He continues to feel yucky. “Oh.” He itches his brow, quickly glancing at what’s-her-face from head to toe, only remembering that they’re not... yeah. “No shame, huh?”
@ujues
