All Work, No Play

2. Mommy Issues

Francine was dejected and tired. The client presentation meeting didn't go as well as she'd hoped. She walked to her car and slumped in the front seat, taking a few moments to let out a long sigh. I don't even want to think about today. She threw the stick into drive and headed out the parking garage.

As she hit the freeway, her phone lit up. Shit, boss man. She answered it on the cars bluetooth and her boss's voice came through the speakers.

"Francine! How'd it go? Tell me you killed it."
"Not good. Seems like they were leaning a different direction than the concepts I proposed. To be honest, I wasn't really on my A-game today."

She braced herself for a scolding. To her surprise, his voice took on a gentle tone.

"Fran, you've been through a lot these past few months with the baby and all. I didn't expect you to come back to work so soon. Take the rest of the day off. Come back tomorrow refreshed and we'll sort things through."

He ended the call. That wasn't so bad. I'm used to him being a dick most of the time.

She pulled off the freeway and her BMW 5 series began to jolt and stutter. The engine oil light flashed.

"Goddammit! I told Marcus to get the oil changed. That lazy sonuvabitch!" she cursed her husband. More shit I've got to worry about. My stress levels are through the roof.

The BMW was constantly leaking oil. Francine felt a wetness across the front of her shirt and groaned. Right on cue. Just like my milk.

Francine limped the car home, coasting on the hills, looking like a hypermiling treehugger with the body of a milf—and hormonal attitude to boot.

She pulled into the driveway and cut the engine, putting an end to its sputtering seizures. She grabbed her things and bolted through the front door. Her husband was lounging on the couch, feet up on the coffee table, and TV tuned to SportsCenter. The place was a mess—toys, diapers, empty bottles, takeout lunch containers everywhere.

She dropped her bag on the floor and threw her keys on the table. The clattering spoke for her mood, and Markus jolted up from the touchdown highlight being replayed endlessly on the flatscreen.

"Oh, hi hon. How'd the big meeting-"
"Markus, you lazy sack of shit. How many times do I have to tell you to get the oil changed in that death trap? It almost died while I was on the 405!"

"I was going to do it this weekend. That's when my mechanic buddy has his shift—he always hooks me up."

"Yeah? Well I hope he has a spare couch for you too. Just look at this place! I'm about to toss your ass out on the curb," she grabbed the piles of food containers and dirty bottles and hurled them at Markus, who cowered from the barrage. "Would it hurt for you to clean up?"

"Babe, I just finally put her to sleep. Please keep it down. I'm tired. I was up all night with the baby. Just let me finish these highlights from the Rams game."

Francine stood there, hands balled into boiling fists, milk running from her aching right breast, thinking of the best way to dispose of her husband's dead body so she wouldn't get caught.

Taking note of her fuming expression, Markus hopped up to console his wife. "I take it the presentation didn't go well." He tried to give her a hug, which was awkward these days with her breasts so huge. He pivoted around to give her a shoulder rub instead. It seemed to calm her tension a bit.

"Cheer up. I've got your favorite coming for dinner—pad thai from that little hole-in-the-wall you love so much."
"With the squid salad?"
"Yes, always for my sweetie."
"You're still a sack of shit, Markus."