“It was a thing, Darla. It’s not like I planned it or anything.”

No, of course not. That was supposed to make it okay. Just a thing. They were standing there in the bushes and - oops! Is that your cock in my mouth?

Right.

Dinner was burning. The stew was going to scorch, but I couldn’t turn away from the cutting board. My knuckles were white, wrapped around the kitchen knife, but I was afraid if I stopped chopping, I’d put the knife through his chest. It’s okay to cry as long as I’m chopping onions.

“Sweetie, it will never happen again.”

Right. It will never happen again, until, of course, my tramp-bitch of a sister goes into heat and flashes her tits at him. He’s just a man, I’d expect him to pop to attention when she offers to suck his cock during the Labor Day picnic. Like I didn’t see her whispering in his ear? Running her tramp fingernails over his sleeve?

Right. Never again.

Until, of course, my whore sister decides, after tonight’s dinner, that she wants more. I know how it will go - because I remember how it went before. “Great dinner. Why don’t you just take your tea to the porch and relax. I’ll make your no-goodnick husband help me clean up the kitchen.”

I could picture it, the tramp’s hands in the soapy sink, back arched, hips pushing against Donald’s front. “Oops! Silly me. Is that your cock in my cunt?”

Right. It won’t happen again.

Dinner. Unbearable. The fuck-slut sitting there, eating my food, making goo-goo eyes at my husband. She got blotchy and started to gag, and gasp, turn blue.

Donald reaching for the telephone. Dialing 911 “Darla! Did you put peanuts in this?”

“Did I? Oops.”

It won’t happen again.