Counterpoint III (finis)

Damn fool couldn't even tell me where he put the mail.  For years now, we've set the mail just inside the front door on the side table.  Same.  Damn.  Place.  For.  Years.  I'm not perfect.  I have my own ailments and shit to deal with, but come on.  How much is a woman supposed to tolerate?  What am I supposed to do, pay someone to sit here with him and watch his ass all day? Hire a babysitter?  I mean, it's like living with a child again, and I already aced that exam years ago.   What's next, diaper rash, ointments and thumb-sucking?  I mean, come on.  Been there, done that.  I'm maxed out.  I've exhausted my patience.  I know it's wrong but don't care.  Dan next door's been a godsend. He and I have struck up a relationship and it feels good to get some of those feelings back if you know what I'm saying. If it wasn't for Dan I'd surely lose my shit.  Mama needs a stuffin', and the fuckwit doesn't even have a clue what's going on.  Doesn't know enough to question my "night out with the girls" schtick.  In some ways I guess I should be grateful he's such a feeble-minded idiot.

I can do this.  Make it look natural.  It'll look like apnea or something, or he just simply stopped breathing during the night.  It happens.  I am so done.  I'll wait until he's asleep.

I'll tell you this- it most certainly is not the way it's portrayed in the movies and on television.  He struggled, boy did he struggle.  And it was anything but quick.  It was all I could do to hold the pillow still, and at one point I thought for sure he'd actually overpower me.  It took him, like, five minutes, it seemed.  After he stilled I maintained pressure just to be sure.

I'll let him be until morning.  Say he must've passed in his sleep.  I'll be able to put on a more convincing show after a decent night's sleep.