What he does is, he leans over a chosen receptacle, yawns open his mouth; lets gravity do the rest of the work.

Then she revises to you, “Really, all the work.”

She hates it. That this is the way he doesn’t spit out his gum.

She points at the framed photo—the two of them smooching less than a year ago; says, “That’s how lazy.” As if, perhaps, this snapped shot was, on his behalf, just a pose; a half-hearted effort.

“Yeah,” shouts Bobby, later, at the bar, through the smoke, over the jukebox cranking Seger and the Silver Bullet Band. “Yeah,” he shouts, soaking in the aforementioned second hand from you. “But marriages?” he says, “They’ll break up over less than even that.”

What you wanna know is, what’s “less than even that”? What possibly?

Bobby, though, he won’t share. Being a recent divorcé and all. And for something like the seventh time.

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