F.J. Bergmann


He opened the door, and she shoved her way past him.
“But— what … excuse me? You can’t just push into somebody’s house!” He rushed after her.
She was standing in the middle of the living room, arms akimbo. “Well, it’s not much of a house, is it? You could have afforded better if you’d made more of an effort. And hired a decent maid service. Don’t you ever vacuum?”
He was vacillating about whether to call the police, when she strode onward into the next room, halting to look down her nose at the kitchen’s scuffed vinyl—fortunately, he’d done a good job of cleaning up the spill after dropping the milk jug at breakfast. A snort was her only comment. But she made up for it when she opened the refrigerator. “Brats, summer sausage, and bacon—oh, I’m sure that’s going to do your cholesterol a lot of good, Mr. Paunchy! And the vegetable drawer is practically empty, not to mention that celery and carrots aren’t supposed to be limp—remind you of anything?” She met his eyes haughtily.
A warm rush of familiarity swept over him as he stared at her. His wife had been dead for six months.
He forgot about his initial panic, the idea of having her arrested; she was a fine figure of a woman, even in the kerchief and no-nonsense housedress. And then he remembered the link he’d clicked on after his third lonely Scotch the night before: RudeFinder.

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