jaylar
Hanging up the phone, Joe Rashford Grindley waddled to the fridge. He was six three and quite fat. His arms seemed too short for his body, his head too big, and his stomach bulged as if he were pregnant with triplets.
What added to his repulsive appearance was his attitude that the world owed him.
The fridge stood on a block of concrete so as to raise it two feet from the floor, making it easier for him to grab the beer as Joe had trouble bending. The top shelf held nothing but lines of beer bottles.
His second wife, a short woman of somewhat slender build, could not reach the freezer without standing on a stool.
So?
His house, his fridge, his way.
It really wasn’t his house. It was not that Joe had worked and bought it, it had been a wedding present from his father in law. Grace De Palma Nettle, was his first wife. She had died before their fifth year of marriage. That was a long time ago.
Joe took his beer, waddled into the living room.
He’d finish his beer and go to see his mother when he got there.
