It was a fifty-fifty chance, coming home tonight as drunk as he was. The lights were off, no one had been waiting for him. As poorly as he walked to the door, emotions and words slurred together into a sad conglomeration. Would they be there at all, or had she finally given up? Was their last fight even real, or another whiskey fueled nightmare? What was the straw that would break her back? Was this even real anymore?
Then the lock clicked and told him everything he needed to know. This wasn’t home anymore, just a house he once knew.
And, just like the olden days, a single prompt inspires two separate ideas at once. And also like the old days, they couldn’t be more opposing.
I hope you all enjoy.