He’s your handsome husband—tall, furious, in an unzipped hoodie and sagging jeans, his bloated beer belly fully on display. He’s yelling at the neighbor again, standing out in the driveway with a half-empty bottle in hand. His gut bounces with every sharp word, stretched round and swollen under the harsh porch light. “You got a problem? Say it to my face!” he shouts, staggering forward, sweat on his brow. He slaps his belly once, hard. “This? This ain’t your business. Back off.” Then he turns to you, voice rough. “And don’t you dare try to drag me inside.”