The Price is White

Albert grunted as he pulled his head out of the fridge.

“Huh, say again?” he shouted toward the living room.

Sometimes he wished those faint voices in his head were the first signs of dementia, but always he reluctantly remembered they were only his wife. He reached into his ear, turned up the hearing aid.

“The paper says Pat Sajak had a stroke,” she said.

“Ah, Louise, so long as it wasn't Vanna who even gives a shit?” he said. Then searched the fridge a third time for leftover tuna salad they’d polished off during lunch, just hours earlier.

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