Dinner on a Flying Saucer
Dean Wesley Smith
Ethel was lookin’ at me like a skunk done crawled up my ass and was making a nest. I suppose I couldn’t really be blamin’ her. I figure that havin’ dinner on a flyin’ saucer would be a hard lump to swallow whole, especially when I smelled of whiskey and had lipstick-lookin’ red marks all over my coveralls.
And, to boot, it was three in the mornin’.
Ethel stood there in the front door of the double-wide that I had bought and paid for with the sweat and hard work from my own bare hands like she owned the thing, leavin’ me stuck like a dog after he rolled in the mud on the second step halfway up to the porch. She was makin’ sure I didn’t have a thought of goin’ inside past her, even though it was cold and kinda real damp out.
Behind her the light from the kitchen was showin’ through her bathrobe and nightgown, outlinin’ things that Ethel should never let be seen.
Now no disrespect to my wife, but Ethel is a big woman, taller by a pretty fine lick than my five-foot height. She never was much of a sight to look at three in the morning, and this morning was no great exception to the rule. She had them there big curlers in her hair that jabbed me every darned time I rolled over in bed. She had on her flannel robe over her nightgown, and her favorite slippers with the pink furballs on the toes. Right at that moment her face was all screwed up like she was about to spit, and she had my shotgun cradled under her tits just like she carried it when she hunted.