The fetid odor hung heavily in the air, prevented from dissipating by the closed space of the exam room.
“So help me, if he farts one more time, I am going to stab him with a serrated steak knife,” she growled.
Anger radiated off of her.
“For years I worked while he was retired.” Her voice rose higher. “Every day I got up early and drove to work. Did he ever help around the house? No. He was disabled. Back pain. ‘I hurt too much!’ he would whine. Instead he watched goddamn Westerns all day while eating vast quantities of peanuts and cheese balls. I hated him every single day.”
She paused, took a breath, and then continued.
“When it was finally time for me to retire I was really looking forward to being a woman of leisure. Maybe traveling. Maybe just sleeping in. Heck, maybe even helping out with babysitting the grandkids. Instead, he has a frickin’ stroke and here I am babysitting HIM!”
She pointed over at the man in the wheelchair. His vacant eyes were staring off into a far corner. A bit of drool dangled from his stubbled chin.
At that point she broke down sobbing.
“I should have divorced him years ago. When will I have MY happiness?!?!! Now everyone says, ‘What a saint you are for taking care of him!’ Bah! I just want him to die already. But I cannot SAY that. Not to anyone. To them I am a such saint. If they only knew….”