Kevin’s had a long day at work. It’s spring again, his landscape business: firing on all cylinders. He thinks to himself, ‘Making money, hand-over-fist. I’m the man.’
Kevin expects to clear $250,000 profit this year, after taxes. He looks upon his small-fleet of trucks in his large horseshoe driveway, all shamelessly emblazoned with his last name: Tucker Landscaping in an amateurish Microsoft Word font on the side. Commercial insurance is a bitch, especially in Massachusetts; drivers here are fucking crazy.
Kevin considers himself a wizard, although no-one, outside his wife Laura, knows about his magick habit. Laura, Kevin’s wife, sees magick as a harmless vice; she doesn’t believe in all that mumbo jumbo. She thinks to herself, ‘So my husband draws a few-pentagrams? Utters a few incantations? Writes in a journal, his so called grimoire? So what? At least Kevin’s not a drunk like my sister’s worthless husband. We live in a big house, I drive a Lexus SUV; our kids have all they need — The screen-door slams-shut interrupting Laura’s thoughts. Laura yells out into space, “Kevin!?”
Kevin replies, as if annoyed, from across the house, “Ya?”
Laura: “Just making sure it was you!”
Kevin, entering the kitchen silently, sneaks behind her, gently whispers in her ear, “Why are you shouting?”
Laura practically shits-herself. “Fuck! I hate-it when you do that!”
Kevin laughs — a deep exaggerated belly-laugh, “Sorry.”
“Yes you’re fucking sorry — sorry ass! But you’re not apologizing. If you were truly sorry, you wouldn’t keep doing shit like that!”
Kevin laughs, nervously this-time. “You’re right; I’m a dick-hole.”
Laura punches him in the arm playfully, but perhaps a little too hard, “You are a dick-hole.”
Kevin smiles, thinks, She still loves me.
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