“Are you drunk?” Abigail, Dennis’ roommate (and sister), stood near the front door, brows furrowed, an oversized purse over her shoulder.
Dennis grabbed another cube from an ice tray, dropped it into a glass — clink. He looked up from the kitchen table, answered, “Matter of opinion.” He reached for a bottle, pulled the cork — plup — , poured a bronze splash.
“Well, if you’re not,” Abigail said, “you’re well on your way.” She hooked the straps of the purse with her thumb, adjusted.
“I like to think I have goals,” Dennis said. He cupped the glass, swirled, contemplated the golden brown. “Goals are good,” he said, and swallowed.
“Now, if you don’t mind,” he said, tapping the palm rest of his laptop, “I have things to get to.”
She snorted, rolled her eyes, turned to walk away, “You’re an asshole,” slammed the door behind her.