Out of Her League
“He fancied he might have been St. Francis of Assisi in a former life, if it weren't for his distaste of chickens. He stared hard at the chicken coop, as a man who was facing a mortal enemy might, held his breath and went in.
He swore loudly, flapping his arms about his head as the smelly beasts stirred up a cloud of dust and foul feathers thick enough to choke him. Lord Jesus, but what did a man have to do to gather his eggs? With the one lungful of air he grabbed as many as he could and retreated into the moonlight. In his basket he saw nine dirty little eggs. Well now. Nine was plenty, wasn't it, though? Tomorrow morning he'd fry himself an omelet and make one for the missus.
“Patrick Flannery, did you find us some vittles or not?” his wife yelled out their bedroom window. She looked a picture this fine evening, standing there with her hair up in curlers and the blue robe he'd given her for Christmas wrapped around her.
Patrick brandished the basket. “'Course I did, me darlin'.
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