If I ever said I loved Francine it was to get her to set the kitchen knife down on the countertop before something awful happened. To her, I was the “looney.” Especially after she rocked back a row of wine coolers.
“You got a sick head,” she stammered, swinging the blade at me. “When you gonna get help now?”
“Fran,” I said, trying to grab her arm. “I said I love you. You see? I just said it, again.”