"SPIT!" Jenny heard the unmistakable roar of two motorcycles. Of all times, those two bozos, would have to show up.

Sheesh, couldn't they have held off, for five minutes?  But no-ho-ho, she grabbed her jeans, headed into the bedroom, which she and Hank shared.  While making herself decent, she caught a glimpse of her face and upper body, reflecting in the married's somewhat smudgy mirror, which overlooked their rather cluttered bureau.  The telltale signs were there, etched along her forehead, under her eyes and around her, somewhat still, misshapen nose.  It still smarted a bit, here and there.

Backstory: she'd gotten into a fight with a little sheepie.  Reason?  Things had added up, around the last phase of a recent pot luck.  While cleaning a spill... men are hogs - "all of 'em," she muttered at her age-lines - the mop had finally given it up.  There was another...somewhere.  The other armbanded "Ws" were busy - well most of 'em.  Hmmph, what Aimee had truely needed was a sound smack up alongside the head...spent more time running her yap, and clicking her cell...

Idiots...Jenny had continued her search.  Wasn't like she'd nothing else better to do; it had been inching close to 10pm, and she had to be at work the following morning.  The job?  Hated it, a call center, but, is what it is.  Anyway, she had finally located the extra mop - one that wasn't in much better shape - but cleaning implements had gone so by the wayside, upon what else was in that mess, called a storage area.  

Crouched before her was a lowered head, with one of those butched clown-cuts...ugh! Jenny continued ruminating, while reaching for her hairbrush - "EF!" the brush, made especially for long wirey hair, had escaped her grasp, rolled off from whatever it had been perched upon, and clattered upon the old pinewood floor.  A second person, that evening, had stood, with his fly undone, before the tube-topped little chit (oh comeon, summer was ooovrrr).  His grin, suddenly had turned upside down.  Hank, being no dummy, had gotten himself the heck out of dodge, colliding into the chit, on the way.  

Long story short:  Jenny had been beyond fuming; she had grabbed a hold of the little troll...who had thrown a lucky punch.  Still smarted a bit - a Wife clouted by a sheepie.  Yea, the little remarkies and hand language, directed toward Jenny, were, more or less, somehow expected to be taken in stride...stuff happens, boys be boys.

Yeah right, until it's your husband.  Your heart broke.