Terry stared at the barbecued chicken legs roasting on the grill, glistening with thick brown sauce, charred just so near the bones while the hot, tangy smoke surrounded him.
“So Terry, how are ya holding up at Schmidt’s?” Mike asked, interrupting his view by prodding at the chicken with a pair of long barbeque tongs.
“Oh, it’s good. Same old shit.” He took a long gulp from his sweaty bottle of beer.
“Yep, we got it good, don’t we?” Mike grinned as he looked down at the chicken. Mike had Terry by eight or nine years and eighty or ninety pounds. On couples night he always wore large Hawaiian shirts that draped over his round shoulders like a muumuu, with long, loose khaki bottoms that could hardly be described as shorts because they only exposed a few inches of ankle above the Velcro-bound sandals. (more…)
Lisa ran the plump tip of her middle finger all the way around the plate, gliding through the cream cheese mixture to make a perfect ring a half inch inside the edge. Then she sucked her finger clean, just like her mom used to, lips puckered out and away so she didn’t ruin her make up. After a sprinkling of dried parsley flakes, the lid of the “Dip & Go” covered the crab dip and she popped it in the fridge.
Her one-month-to-go belly couldn’t be covered by her pink terry bath robe anymore, as it would gradually peep out from under the belt, tied tight at the band of her bra. At home that didn’t matter, and she smiled when she caught the bump’s reflection in the window of the stove.
“Terry?” she called out softly to the man lying on the couch. Legs crossed, shoes on, he laid with his eyes closed but kept his brows and forehead scrunched tight. “Baby?” She leaned over and softly combed her nails through the curly blonde hairs on his arm.