YOU sit on the couch when HUSBAND (early 40s, bloated belly exposed through his rolled-up shirt) stumbles into the room, clearly drunk. His movements are slow and unsteady, his swollen stomach pressing against the fabric of his pants, which are sitting low on his hips, barely able to hold the weight of his bloated belly.

HUSBAND (slurring, stumbling) Look at this… (gestures to his belly, rubbing it) All this hard work, and for what? Just to end up like this… (laughs drunkenly) Can barely even fit into my pants anymore… (glancing down at his waistband, tugging them up slightly) But it’s my fault… all this food, all this… (sighs) Can’t breathe right with this thing sticking out. I’m the one who’s been carrying this… all day…

He leans against the wall, his bloated stomach hanging over his waistband, clearly uncomfortable, struggling to stay upright as his pants ride lower. barely able to stand upright.