Steve had come in, alcohol on his breath, swaying back and forth, not able to walk in a straight line.
“Steve, are you…” u start, but are cut off with a slap.
“Shut up, bitch.”
u sank to the floor in disbelief as he staggered into your bedroom.
And the tears ran down your face, and the hyperventilating began.
So here u were, lying on the keuken-, keuken floor.