He poured his glass of merlot on the floor in a thin, deliberate stream, expecting me to immediately move to mop up the puddle.
Fighting the urge to clean, I stepped over his mess to refill my glass. I wiped the maroon splatter from the top of my shoe on the back of my other pant leg, trying to act as if standing on one foot was completely normal.
His heavy sigh was filled with indignation and contempt.
“Aren’t you getting that?” he huffed.
“No,” I said handing him a dishcloth, than taking a sip of wine, “not any longer.”