MR CHIPS BY ALICE HATCHER 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 36

She’d left her so-called husband on the couch, watching a Super Bowl half-time performance by some kinky little biped in spandex tights. The miserable specimen didn’t even look up when she said she was going out to get some cigarettes. It served the son-of-a-bitch right to make his own damn supper, or at least reheat last night’s leftover tuna casserole.