Not only was it hot, but the fucking humidity was so high that the slight breeze didn't dry his skin either.Not only was it hot, but the fucking humidity was so high that the slight breeze didn't dry his skin either. Fucking air conditioner had the condenser shot, or something. It was always something. Damn thing had quit late in the afternoon and he couldn't get it fixed until the repairman looked at it in Monday morning. And it was only Saturday night now. Norman knew about keys, and locks, and deadbolts. His father had let him work in the locksmith's shop since he was about six years old, teaching and guiding his son. By the time Norm was in high school, he was making service calls, re-keying locks, replacing tumblers. When his dad died, a short six months after his mom, Norm had taken over the locksmith shop. He'd married his high school sweetheart, the bitch. She was never satisfied, always wanted something more for the house. And she was ashamed that he was a locksmith. She really felt that she should have married someone of a higher calibre. Never mind that he'd done well, now owned three shops, one in the north end, one south, and one on Miami Beach, and had just started a new shop in Kendall. She still wasn't satisfied. He'd slowly, over the years, renovated the big old two-story house until it was a showplace inside. Still, she wasn't satisfied, and Norm, to keep away from her, had turned a large room on the upper floor, into a gym. He'd been working out in the second floor room of his house, pumping on the small weights, getting the sweat working (no pain - no gain), thinking about his wife again. The bitch had just about quit fucking, wasn't interested anymore, and always either had a fucking headache or was on her period or something. He'd tried to pat her rounded ass this morning as she was frying up a couple eggs at the stove for his breakfast, and she'd moved away from his patting hand and slipped him an annoyed look. |