Free Boo Hiss by Rene Gutteridge

quite a sight. What do they call you? Metrosexuals? The last time I saw my husband cry was twenty-two years ago when he got his arm cut off.”
    Alfred sighed, slumped, and wiped away his tears. “Doris, you don’t understand. Your story … did something to me. I can’t really explain it. But it … it …”
    “Touched you?”
    Alfred hesitated, the sexual harassment seminars he’d attended causing him to choose his words carefully. “I guess so.” “This has taken me four years to write.”
    “It’s a powerful story, Doris. And those first chapters are amazing. I’m not one for love stories, but you’ve managed to win me over, and without a sex scene by page twenty-eight.” Alfred sniffled. “Truthfully, it’s a little hard to believe a man would go to such great lengths to save his bride, and then end up dying anyway, but you sold me on it, Doris. You sold me on it. You’ve raised the bar. I recently read a manuscript where I thought the protagonist was heroic because he was willing to give up his mistress, so this is quite a leap for me, as you can see.”
    “So does this mean you’ll take me as your client?”
    Alfred stared across at the woman, who was nearly swallowed by the leather chair on which she sat. He looked around the room for his only other client, who’d seemed to vanish into thin air. There he was, across the room, getting chummy with an old woman who looked like she was half a day away from her coffin.
    He threw up his hands. “Why the dickens not?”

    Ainsley pulled a sweater over her pajamas, buttoned up her coat, and got in her car. It was way too late to be out, but she wasn’t going to sleep much anyway.
    She’d spent the evening fretting. Wolfe had told her he might be home late, and though she let him leave without an argument, it was difficult. After all, she’d changed her mind about being pregnant in the spring. She realized that if she waited much later to get pregnant, it might interfere with holiday plans next fall. Who would want to try to plan Thanksgiving with pending labor? And then there was the idea of being huge and pregnant in the hot summer months, when she normally would be out fertilizing her grass.
    So according to her calculations, calendar, and temperature charts, her whole plan could be blown if Wolfe didn’t get home soon. And it didn’t look like he was going to make it. With a huge huff, she backed out of the driveway and headed toward Melb and Oliver’s.
    Oliver had phoned, sounding frantic. “I’ve called the doctor!” he shouted.
    Ainsley mustered up her calm voice. “Oliver, that’s good. I’m sure he’s on his way.”
    “No! I’ve called the doctor, and now Melb is about to come unglued. She hates doctors!” Ainsley realized he was shouting because of all the wailing Melb was doing. “Can you please hurry over and talk some sense into her?”
    Ainsley was at their house in less than five minutes. As she got out of the car, she could see Melb’s figure silhouetted against the curtains, her arm gesturing angrily at Oliver’s silhouette.
    She hurried to the door and knocked. It swung open, and Oliver said, “She’s lost her mind!”
    “Haven’t you read the statistics?” Melb shouted from her vertical position on the couch.
    “The ones about how many wives drive their husbands crazy?” Oliver shouted back.
    Ainsley stepped into the living room and between the two lovebirds. “What’s the matter?”
    “She’s been sick for four weeks now, and she refuses to go to the doctor. But she’s getting worse, Ainsley. Today she could barely get out of bed.”
    “Yet,”
Melb retorted, with a finger flying toward the ceiling, “I managed to scrub every floor in this house with vinegar!”
    Oliver shrugged. “It’s true. In under two hours. But despite how ill she is, she is refusing to eat anything healthy.”
    “He’s lying!” Melb shrieked. “Oliver! What did I have for breakfast this morning?”
    He rolled his gaze toward