Brad has been doing well. I got some homemade bread from the fridge last week and he stormed up to me, yelling, “DON’T YOU EAT THAT NASTY BREAD IT’S STALE, AUTUMN!”
I continued to open it from the zip-locky freshness and tossed it into the micro, “But I don’t see any mold on it. I’m hungry. I wanna eat it.”
“Homemade bread doesn’t last as long and that’s from THANKSGIVING!”
“I know. My aunt made it. It would be so good.”
“Are you listening to me? It could make you sick.”
“Fine. I think it’ll be okay.”
“FUCK IT THEN EAT IT. GET SICK.”
I held the warm, ungreen bread in my hands for a moment but the shouting had made me feel really bad. Pissed that I had been yelled at, I pitched the little loaf into the trash.