Folding Rags

I'd forgotten all about Tom and Gwen. They're back. I've missed them.

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four

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"Dinner?" he cried when she called.
"Why not?"
"Sounds like a date."
"You've already fucked me, Tom. Is a date so out of order?" she growled through the phone.
"I haven't thought about dating yet."
"Forget it then."
"No. Where?"
At the restaurant, they stared at each other.
"I'll have a glass of Cabernet," she told the waitress. "Get him something. Fast."
"Jameson. Rocks."
"Bring the bottle."
"Funny."
"You're a three-ring circus, yourself."
"Sorry."
"You say that a lot don't you?"
He chewed on his lip, mulling an answer.
"It's not a date, okay?" she said. "Jesus, lighten up."
"Sorry...shit."
"How are the kids?"
"Desperate."
"You?"
"Empty."
"I'm gonna stab myself with this butter knife, Tom. You want to go?"
"Yeah."
"Can't get away fast enough?"
"That's not it."
"No time to waste?"
"Come on, Gwen. You know my situation. I'm neck-deep in shit."
"Got it." She slammed a twenty on the table. "I'm on your side. Fucker," she hissed on her way out.
"No one is for long," he muttered, absently stirring the whiskey with his finger. Then he drank.