He set the glass down and watched the wine slosh around in the glass. NPR commentators with impossibly complicated multiracial power names rattled on about some soundbite of the day in the background. He stared over at the pile of mail with a sigh, a pile of advertising since nobody writes handwritten letters anymore. He closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh.
“You’ll hurt your neck sleeping like that,” the voice said, “Albert, hey…”
He slowly opened his eyes to find his husband leaning over him, still dressed in a bow tie and suit for the symphony.
“You silly goose, you’ll wake up with a neck ache sleeping in a kitchen chair like that – – and worse, you’ll be a crab apple all day. and who wants that? Not me, that’s who. Troddle off to bed now, will you? I love you,” he said, kissing him on the forehead.
With the hallway clock chiming eleven, he dropped his clothes in a pile at his feet next to the bed. He licked his teeth which still tasted like pretentious red wine. “I love you too,” he muttered, quickly finding himself back asleep.