From behind, she snatched the soda pop can out of his hand with urgency enough to spray his clothes and the back of the couch.
“You know you can’t have regular colas—” She caught sight of the empty Drumsticks® wrapper on the end table. The pitch of her voice climbed. “Ice cream?”
She faced him. “You’re a diabetic. This stuff will kill you.”
He gripped in his fist the candy bar he’d opened before his wife’s unexpected return from errands. The chocolatey guts squished from between his fingers.
She stood back and crossed her arms, glaring as if he were her child. “What, have you got a death wish?”
He glanced away.
©2015 Sandra R. Davidson (Image)