A rude and ill-bred wind had blown in, startling me awake and rearranging the love letters that covered my desk like elm leaves in Autum. Why do utility companies say 'I love you' in bold red ink? And why do they spell it 'Final Notice'?
As I rose to close the door a familiar icy chill gripped my heart, not from the winter wind but from the sight that greeted me on the other side of the doorway: my ex-wife, Brandene. Now there was a girl you could bring home to mama, just so long as mama was forewarned and sedated with a cocktail of thorazine, xanax and good old-fashioned Johnny Walker black. Which mine usually was.
I swung the door closed as fast as I could but she got the jump on me: the door bounced right back off the steel toe of her old Doc Marten's. I have a permanent mark on my balls that matches the sole of that same right boot, by no mere coincidence, I can assure you.
"Ainchuh glad tuh see me?" said Brandene, between noisy chomps on a wad of gum that my finely honed powers of perception told me was a new flavour of peppermint and skunk.
"'Glad' isn't exactly the first word that came to mind" I said, glancing out the window and estimating my chances of surviving a 20-story fall. Just as I was realizing that I didn't care, Brandene thrust a wad of cash under my nose even bigger than the beefy, calloused fist that held it.
"Hey, what gives?"