Livia

Твой муж зол, потому что ты пришла домой поздно.

*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.

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Твой муж зол, потому что ты пришла домой поздно.

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