“For fuck’s sake, Todd, all I’m asking is that you do a little fucking housework. Why is this such a big deal for you?” Margaret was glaring at her husband, hands on her hips, as he sat on the couch, playing one of his dumb video games, like he’d been doing all week. She had hopped for once to come home from work to find the house at least half-way straightened up, but no, that was apparently too much to ask.
“The place looks fine,” growled Todd.
“Fine, huh?” Margaret picked up one of Todd’s shirts, idly tossed on the floor of their one-bedroom apartment. She tossed it at his head, where it wrapped over his face, blocking his view of the screen. Todd grunted, yanked the shirt off his face, and threw it to the side, pausing the game. He turned at glared at her.
“The place is a mess,” she said, motioning to the empty soda cans on the coffee table, the discarded clothes on the sofa, and the pile of dishes in the sink. “Maybe you don’t mind sitting in filth, but I’d like to not trip over your fucking underwear when I come home from work.” She kicked at the carpet, and winced as she saw a few crumbs from one of their meals fly up. “Christ, when is the last time you even vacuumed? There’s only three rooms worth of carpet in this place, you can’t run the fucking
Hoover for ten minutes?”
“I’m shit at housework, I told you,” he said.
“Let me guess, because it’s woman’s work, right?” she said.