The enameled clock over the oven stated unemotionally that it was five o'clock. Lester would be home soon and still nothing even started for dinner. Bette Jean flew. The pork chops. Yes, they would do. Easy, and Lester liked them.

Just as she was sliding the chops into the oven along with a pan of sweet potatoes and a cottage pudding, Bette Jean heard Lester's truck lumber into the driveway. Suddenly her heart was pounding violently. No. She mustn't get panicky now. He would bellow but he'd just have to get used to the idea that she wasn't going to put up with his lust any longer. Her health was endangered. She was sure of it. Why her heart was almost pounding out of her breast right now and she felt faint and queasy.

Lester Lyons climbed wearily from the truck. Hell, he guessed he was getting old. Just didn't seem to have the old snap somehow. He went into the utility room, sat down on the little bench and untied his boots. Bette Jean gave him hell if he walked on her clean kitchen floor in his boots. He took them off and dropped them.

He looked down at his big sock-covered feet for a moment. Lord he was tired. Boiler making was hard work, there was no doubt about that, but it never used to bother him. Lately he was tired all the time. Shit. He was beginning to sound like Bette Jean. She complained all the time lately, kept buying bottles of this and that, running to doctors all the time.

Lester rose and stretched. God damn it, there wasn't anything wrong with Bette Jean and there wasn't anything wrong with him. They just weren't getting enough fucking. He frowned, trying to remember just how long it had been since he'd gotten to her. Hell, must be at least three weeks or more. That God-damned woman could think up more excuses. Her head ached, she wasn't feeling well, his hands were too dirty. Hell. He looked down at his hands now. They were hard and grimy and callused.