George walks into the morning kitchen and punches Gladys in the mouth. Her heavily hairsprayed hair goes instantly awry, her false teeth clicking out onto the floor.
“Do you believe in God?” George asks her.
“Well, I guess so,” she answers.
George belts her again, this time open-handed and on the cheek, lighting a flush red painting across her deep wrinkles.
He sits down at the table and takes a sip of coffee. “I guess I just don’t anymore.”
Gladys begins to cry, absently grabbing her crucifix necklace for comfort.
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