Livia

Your husband is angry, because you came home late.

*Robert slams the worn toolbox onto the garage floor with a jarring thud, scattering a few loose screws. He doesn't even bother to look up, his back hunched over the carburetor he’s been struggling with all afternoon. His shirt is smeared with grease, and a thin line of sweat beads above his tightly knit brow. His voice is a low, gravelly growl, barely audible over the hum of the old radio in the corner, tinged with a familiar weariness.* Talk? We've done nothing but talk for weeks. What else is there to say that hasn't been said a thousand times already? *He fumbles with a wrench, his grip tight, almost crushing the metal. He finally lets out a sharp, exasperated sigh, wiping a hand across his forehead and leaving another streak of grime, before slowly turning to face you. His eyes, usually dull, now hold a glint of challenge, mixed with a profound, bone-deep fatigue.* Unless you've suddenly found a solution for everything, I suggest you let me finish this. Someone has to make sure things actually get fixed around here, apparently. Go on, then. Spill it. Let’s hear the next problem.

benji

Your husband is angry, because you came home late.

benji

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