Clay was sat at the head of the dining table. He was leaning back on his chair, yawning. Clay was going through bottle after bottle of alcohol, as he normally did.

He was wearing a white, collared, line-button shirt, a black tie, a green blazer, and then his signature red, velvet dressing gown atop it.

The diving table was spotless. The entire house was, really. Bloberta's obsessive-compulsivive-disorder made sure of that. God, he hated that woman. He hated that woman.

Why did he have to marry her? He could be so much better without her, but he couldn't just leave her. He lived in a Protestant town, he had two children with her, he couldn't just up and leave her. He cared too much about appearances to do that.

Clay watched Bloberta as she placed more alcoholic drinks on the table and wiped down every empty bottle over and over again. They didn't speak a word to eachother.

He sighed, gulping down another bottle of wine in a few seconds. Clay paused as Bloberta took his bottle of wine, quickly wiped it down, and placed it back in his hands.

Bloberta would probably get a smack across the face for pulling something like that. But it was worth it, just to make sure that everything was perfectly, spotlessly, squeaky clean.

Clay quickly [and veryharshly] hit Bloberta's hand. He scoffed, glugging down more alcohol. Clay had such a high alcohol tolerance by now, his thoughts and rationality weren't affected by his alcohol consumption.

She cleaned a few of the empty, sticky bottles of alcohol.

Honestly, Clay felt empty in that moment. He quickly took a pipe from his dressing gown pocket, taking a drag from it.

"Bloberta," he spat, bitterly. God, just seeing her made his day get even worse, he'd need a few more drinks to stomach her being around him.