"Dammit he's late again!" I say to myself while sitting in the living room drinking my Moscato. This is the fourth time this week that he's been coming home late I know somethings up I just can't put my finger on it. I'm so tired of this Shit me having to lie to my three year old daughter London about where her father's at and if he's gonna be home in time to tuck her in bed. I get up of the white leather sofa to pour the rest of my wine out and I rest my hands on the granny top counter and take a deep breath in and out. It's like every since we got married a month ago everything been going wrong I'm not happy, he's not happy , he comes home late hours of the night , the sex is a negative one I just can't take it anymore. As I walk out the kitchen to turn off the light I take one step onto our cherry wooden stairs and I hear keys jiggling to get into the door.
dre:
