@freddiemiiles | liked!
Had the rap on the door been any gentler, he’d be caught off guard. He’d swing open the door in Dickie’s shirt and if Marge had been standing opposite the threshold she would’ve traded a smile and said nothing of it. But Freddie had a way of entering. (Much like parking in the midst of a street, it was almost trademarked.)
He threw the shirt off and stood still for a moment, then wracked through the closet for something that was passably his own. The door rattled impatiently once again. He pulled it open and offered Freddie a tense smile, meaningless.
Son of a bitch, he thought. Why?
“Good morning, Freddie,” he greeted, and with haste he almost shut the door in his face immediately after. He rushed out, quickly, “Dickie isn’t here.” He bit his tongue to mute what would be: be gone.