Archie’s come home smelling like tequila and cigarettes. I can tell he’s been taking the pills too because they turn him into a total dick. This isn’t me throwing shade. He literally becomes a dick on these new pills he’s been prescribed for his Rosacea.
He digs through the fridge for his leftover chicken cutlets. Because of his dick fingers, he has trouble carrying the plate and an even harder time punching in the numbers on the microwave. I tell him that reheating chicken just fills it with bacteria, but I don’t badger him. I’m just bored after watching reruns of Antiques Roadshow all night. There’s only so many times you can hear someone squeal about their great aunt’s cuckoo clock being worth a grand, but it’s not so often you get to watch a giant dick trying to work a microwave. After several unsuccessful attempts at entering the timing, Archie turns to me for help, his brown eyes lost deep within the rolls of wrinkly skin. So I hit two minutes and we watch the countdown together. I’m generous enough to open the door when the microwave beeps too. He offers me some of the chicken cutlets, but I remind him that they’re full of bacteria and leave him to it.