Split shifts. The bane of my existence at the time. I had to go home in between if he was off work. Couldn't have any time spent at unknown places. Didn't matter that it took me forty-five minutes to get there, and then back, and so it was near pointless to spend the gas money to drive all that way just for maybe an hour at home. The rule was the rule and it was the rule, so the rule must be followed.

One particularly lousy gray day, he was hungry, so I stopped at McDonald's to buy lunch on my way home. McD's was about fifteen minutes from the 'house,' and thus the cause of my next problem.

"The fries are cold." He informed me.

Then I got all mouthy, you know, like women do. "Heat them in the microwave."

This apparently, in some language, means, "Please throw your Super Sized fries at me."

Because that is what he did. He threw his motherfucking fries at me. For telling him to heat them up in the microwave. Because it was somehow MY fault I could not bend space and time to make McDonald's a WEE BIT closer to the house.

I stood there. This was somehow worse than the vase. Yeah, I know. "You threw your goddamned fries at me? YOU THREW YOUR FUCKING FRIES AT ME?"

He looked more dumbfounded than I felt. Like even HE couldn't believe he'd done it. Or maybe he couldn't believe I'd yelled. I don't know. Don't really care.

I left. Went back to work and hung out until it was time to clock in.