10 Best Patio Umbrella For Rectangle Table

Best Patio Umbrella For Rectangle Table in 2023

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Another Poker Party

Listening to the laughter passing through the closed sliding glass door, she heard the clink of a can being just a little too firmly placed onto the patio table top followed by an obnoxious, wet belch.

This jubilant vote of affirmation was followed a by whiney female voice, "Ssshh! Yu'r too lowwd." She heard a sound of something firmly connecting against something else, making her think of a hearty, raw piece of steak being forcefully thrown at hard concrete.

The slapped meat sound was followed by a surprised grunt and accompanied by the prior voice complaining, "Owwww! Whad-ja do tha' fer? Tha' hurt."

A moment of silence, probably for a drag on a cigarette she thought, then the whiney voice continued, "Sumbudee's gunna call th' cops!"

"Wow! Lookit th han' muhk un ez ahm! Jeez, Jin, yu 'it 'im too 'ard." She heard someone say, thinking it must have been Bart.

"Sounds like Josh is drunk again," she hoped he and his wife, Jen, didn't have loud sex again tonight. In a futile attempt to find a comfortable position, she shifted her seated position on the still new futon.

She grabbed one of the cylinder shaped pillows that had accompanied the futon set they had purchased in Orlando only 7 months ago and shoved it up under her knees, praying for some sciatic relief. "Just for a few minutes at least, please" she asked of the Big Man Upstairs.

While adjusting the pillow under her knees, she grimaced from the memory of the other night's unwelcome auditory event. She felt a stupidly ridiculous twinge of jealousy twist deep within her heart. Was the feeling stemming from the overabundance of hormones combined with her feeling like a stranded humpback whale, it didn't make anyone come in from the patio to ask her if she needed anything or wanted a non-alcoholic margarita.

Closing her eyes for one small, unobserved, peaceful moment she imagined, "Yes, nice, cool slushy strawberries, mmmmm." She imagined the feel of ice and cold in her mouth. Tart strawberries blended with just enough sugar in a frosty margarita glass to sip the delicious concoction from. A thick, curvaceous twist of lime rind balanced just so on the lip of the glass for the perfect presentation. Saliva rushed to fill her mouth with the thought of such a fabulous oral delight. She swallowed to keep her spit from drooling from between her lips and down her chin.

"Nobody told me pregnant women have problems with the overproduction of saliva," she swallowed again.

The sound of drunken cheering coming from the patio made her open her eyes. Law and Order was on but she wasn't really paying attention to tonight's episode. She had already seen it anyway.

She adjusted yet another pillow under her. She was ensconced with pillows in her attempt to ease her discomfort. She was continuously manipulating the pillows, trying to find a configuration that worked but she was still searching for the magic combination.

Absently looking towards the tv and not really seeing it, her aching swollen hands pushed at one pillow then tugged on the corner of another. The changing television scenes flashed different colors across the dark living room, over her once smooth skin, reflected in the empty windows and her eyes. Flashing blue-white then bloody red-white followed by a sickly greenish-white fading back into a lonely purple-blue-white color, resembling pictures she had once seen on a Discovery Channel show about the Artic during its deepest twilight.

Her mind recalled some of the indiscernible, animalistic noises she had the undesired privilege of hearing from her apartment ceiling the other night. She remembered finally getting comfortable, contorting her body pillow to support her extended stomach; comfortable enough to at least feel drowsy and somewhat peaceful. It would be at that moment her beer-pickled husband decided to come to bed.

He had sunk into the mattress next to her, which messed up her comfortable configuration just enough to cause her irritation when the cosmic barnyard sounds started coming from the direction of her bedroom ceiling. Not bothering to ask her husband to move since he wouldn't hear her anyway, she used her right foot to push his heavy leg away from her thigh.

As she had pushed his leg away she thought, "Don't you touch me. You're drunk. Again." She was so disgusted with his drinking. But she was married to him, for better or for worse.

The worse was being that she truly loved him despite his need to drink. She even tried to forgive him when he made her feel horrible for wanting to buy a new outfit for the baby at the store instead of shopping at the flea market. She was supposed to shop at the flea market and thrift shops so he could spend whatever he wanted on beer. It was difficult not to hold resentment in her heart when he treated her like that, regardless of his alleged abusive childhood.

Thinking about the auditory cosmic barnyard presentation from her neighbors the other night, she firmly told herself, "I don't need to hear any of those sounds again-ever."

With pillows momentarily settled around her, and her Corgi curled up against her leg, her left hand returned to gently massaging circles on her most obviously protruding tummy. "Another stupid, friggin' poker night! It's becoming a nightly ritual", she thought with great irritation. "Be nice if someone would say hello to me, considering it is my house too. I suppose that would be just too much wife-y interaction for those skivers." Her Irish temper flashed to life for a moment before fading back to whatever depths it had appeared from. The baby didn't need to feel her annoyance. Her dog turned his head to look at her, with doggy-concern in his eyes asking if she was ok.

"It's OK, Murphers," she told the dog as she patted him on top of his furry head. Murphy continued to look at her with his brown eyes full of unasked questions. She continued to rub the soft fur on his head and around his ears and talked to him.

"Just ignore the pregnant wife! She's not supposed to be doing anything anyway...just getting fat on bed rest". She let out a constricted breath of air from her lungs. Taking her hand off Murphy's head, she placed a kiss on her fingertips and placed her fingertips on Murphy's head.

"I love you, Murphers," she told the dog as he tucked his chin down onto her leg. "Thanks for always keeping me company."

Shifting her weight and trying not to disturb Murphy so he wouldn't leave, she tried adjusting her seated position on the futon currently serving as a living room couch. A mostly futile effort trying to relieve the sciatic pain traveling down her left leg, she reached her right arm out to pick up the television remote off the table next to the couch.

The click of the slider's door mechanism was followed by the sound of the door itself sliding on its gritty track. This preceded the sound of one of the kitchen chairs being kicked accompanied with a bearish grunt.

"Here comes my Pickled Prince!" she cringed inwardly as her once handsome husband staggered his way past where she was seated on his way to the toilet.

Hearing a vociferous stream of urine hitting water in what she hoped was the toilet she thought, "Amazing. He is actually using the toilet instead of peeing into the dirt next to the house. I hope no one has seen him doing that." She wondered if anyone had and said something.

Flicking through television channels using the remote, she paused to take a sip of water. One of the many glasses of water she was required to drink each day. Her husband exited the bathroom and crossed the tiled floor as she watched. He didn't say anything to her or even acknowledged her being there. He just grabbed several more cans of beer from the coolness of the fridge before going back out into the citronella scented summer night. Setting down her glass of water on the side table, she realized with disgusted annoyance that she hadn't heard the toilet flush.

Not wanting to fight over something as trivial as flushing the toilet, she waited on the futon until she was sure he was back out on the patio, absorbed in his beer and the game. Manipulating herself up and off the futon was an exercise that should have enabled her to enter herself into the Gladiator contest on tv. She let out a small, sarcastic giggle. Too bad they haven't seen some of the fights she had endured when her husband was drunk or when dealing with a hang over. She'd win a trophy for certain.

Shuffling her bare, swollen feet over the cool tile floor while holding one hand over her stomach, as if her hand would actually shield the baby from any harm that may threaten, she reached the bathroom. The seat and lid were up they usually were on the toilet. The light shone on brightly, highlighting the dots and dribbles on the side of the bowl as well as the floor. Reaching out her hand to flip the seat and lid closed, she got a whiff of pee that made her stomach flip.

"Oh, that's gross! He really needs to drink more water or he is going to severely damage his kidneys, but what do I know?" Trying not to put her bare foot in the floor dribbles, she depressed the lever to flush the toilet bowl then flipped the seat and lid down.

Gathering toilet paper from the roll to wipe up the pee dribbles, she continued her current line of thought, "He told me he didn't want to be like his own dad. Sure wouldn't know it by his behavior since we discovered I was pregnant." She held onto the sink cabinet so she wouldn't lose her balance. Carefully, she bent her knees so she could reach the toilet and the floor and began to wipe up the mess.

Cautiously, using the sink to pull herself upward, she flipped the toilet lid back up, effectively wasting her previous effort to close it, and tossed the used tissue in the bowl. Deciding she had to relieve herself of some her own water, she turned back around and tended to business.

Smoothing the extremely unattractive, but supportive, pregnancy panties over her hard stomach, she turned to the sink. Happening to glance up at the mirrored cabinet, the bathroom light did no favors for her reflection. Seeing her skin all irritated and broken out made her wonder who ever said being pregnant made a woman beautiful? She sure wasn't. No wonder her husband was drunk every night.

Glancing down at the sink, she reached for the soap. Lathering up her palms, she looked back up at the mirror, and into her eyes. Seeing the soul-deep sadness she felt living within her seeing it being reflected back towards her from the mirror, jolted and startled her. Refusing to look into her own hurt, despairing soul anymore, she focused on rinsing the soapy bubbles off her hands. Her body defied her want for denial by allowing her eyes to fill with hot tears.

The sink blurred as the tears filled up her eyes. She folded her lips inward and pressed them together to keep herself from letting out any sounds because if he heard her crying again, it would only trigger his temper. She continued to let the water run over her hands, more for the soothing effect rather than any rinsing now.

Not a good combination for him on a good sober day, she knew. He didn't understand how much it hurt her to be pregnant and away from her family who would have lavished her with love and attention and welcomed the growing baby within her. Instead, she felt like a hated burden that had to be tolerated because he was married to it.

"It would have been nice to have a baby shower, even a little one, just two or three people," she thought as her tears accompanied the water going down the drain. "He doesn't even act excited about the baby. He is too wrapped up in complaining about the lack of money and freaking out about how much things cost. He's never even sat next to me on the couch to feel the baby moving," she let out a weary sigh without noticing she did so.

"Well, maybe he is planning a surprise shower," she lied to herself as she gently dried her swollen hands and fingers, and dried the tears from her sore, broken-out face.

"He knows how much this baby means to me. Why is he acting like being pregnant is my own fault? It was his brilliant idea that I discontinue the birth control pills because they were screwing up my libido so badly," she gave the towel a hard twist before smoothing it back onto the bar it was hung from.

"He wasn't concerned about me. He was concerned about his sex life!" She didn't want to think about it but what was she going to do? They had used her savings and pawned the little bits of jewelry she had. She didn't have any family here and she hadn't made any friends. She had the baby and her dogs. That was it. She was isolated.

"So, I got pregnant. I didn't do it all by myself," the thought passed, wrapped and smothered in hurt emotions.

"It isn't my fault I broke out so badly. Does he think I am enjoying looking like a pregnant leper?" she opened the bathroom door, and flipped the light switch to the off position.

Hearing more loud laughter coming from the direction of the patio, she carefully made her way to the kitchen with her faithful Welsh Corgi beside her, making sure she and the baby were safe. The other dog was in the yard, attending the poker party.

Her mind continued to search for some small measure of understanding of her husband actions, "Since he is my husband, I respected his decision and went with it. I really don't understand why he is so angry. What did I do? I'm just trying to take care of me and the baby."

Seeing the sliding door and screen door open a couple of inches, she exhaled a deeply weary sigh. "He didn't shut the door all the way. Mosquitoes will get in then he'll complain all night about being bit or hearing them buzzing in his ear and I won't get any rest."

She changed her lumbering walk towards the sliding door leading out to the patio so she could shut it. Hopefully, no mosquitoes had found their way in yet.

"Yeah, right," she muttered under her breath to herself.

She made sure to close both the screen door and slider. No one on the patio so much as turned their head as she pulled the slider closed, which made a soft bump against its frame. None turned to acknowledge her presence though her shape cast a shadow, made by the kitchen light hung from the ceiling behind her, onto the patio area where they were playing nickel and dime poker.

She could see a large pile of change in the center of the table with numerous beer cans on the ground encircling the table. The player were gathered with their cards as if the table were a sun and the cans the corona. Josh had an ashtray overflowing in front of him. Josh's wife, Jennifer or Jenn (either was fine-thank you for asking), had her sandals off and her feet tucked up into the chair with her sipping her ump-teenth strawberry margarita.

Bart, a bachelor who lived up the street, was the oldest one of the patio poker party group (other than her, but she wasn't part of the patio group, was she?). He also had an ashtray filled with little brown stems sticking up, making her think of stumpy, topless mushrooms.

An empty Doritos bag was lying on the concrete patio along with some dirty paper plates near the grill. Crumpled paper towels and several overturned beer cans were next to one of her struggling pots of flowers. With her hand still on the slider's handle, she fought against the overwhelming desire to cry. She knew who would, again, be cleaning up the disgusting mess in the morning. Good thing for her she suffered the opposite of morning sickness. She was nauseous in the evenings for some bizarre reason.

"When did I turn into a pregnant maid? An ugly, pregnant maid?" she thought with some resentment. "Someone could have at least said hello to me or asked me if I needed anything instead of ignoring me."

She had been cleaning up from the nightly gatherings going on almost three weeks now. "I am going to have to say something." She felt fear twist her insides at the thought. She removed her hand from the door handle, and began massaging calming circles on her tummy again.

Turning away from the pane of glass, the patio light reflected the dusty paw prints and nose streaks stuck to the glass. "Have to remember to clean that door tomorrow," she told herself.

Shuffling over the cool tile floor, she went towards the kitchen sink, replacing the hand massaging her tummy with her left so she could reach out with the right, towards the countertop for the erroneous idea of support. Holding the counter for the imagined support, she reached the sink and turned so that the sink was now in front of her. With both hands now resting on the outer edge of the sink, one on either side of her very big belly; she could look through the kitchen window at her husband and the others seated outside.

She looked at her husband and watched him as he sat outside on the patio at the glass topped table, now littered with change and cans. He had finally developed a nice tan that really made his blue eyes shine; though she knew from past experience they'd be bloodshot now from too much beer. He was fortunate to have been gifted with a mouthful of almost perfectly straight teeth, which he showed to his advantage often. Because of the tan, his teeth also appeared whiter from where she stood, watching his movements through the glass.

Yet, she knew it was only an illusion. If a person came close enough to him, they'd notice his bad breath along with the bits of tobacco stuck between his not-so-even teeth as well as the stains. "How did I fail to see the gross factor in that?" she asked herself but she wasn't listening, being quite preoccupied with the well-being of the precious life she was carrying within her tired body.

Watching through the glass, she observed her husband grinning about something as he used his right hand to pick up a can from the patio. She watched the familiar move as he absently placed the edge of the can under his bottom lip then shot a combination of tobacco and spit into it before setting the can back down next to the leg of his chair. He absently wiped his hand across his beardless chin, and then ran the same hand down the jeans stretched across his muscular thigh.

"Great," she heard herself sarcastically mumble. "He's sloppy drunk." She hoped he wouldn't have horrible gas tonight from all the beer or she would end up attempting sleep on the futon again so she wouldn't be sick from the smell in their small bedroom.

Seemed a long time ago, she found that charming smile and strong thighs to be an extraordinarily sexy combination as she observed the way his leg muscles pressed the worn seams of the faded denim to their utmost limit while he was straddling the padded iron chair. Now, all she felt was fear from having seen first hand what strength those muscles were capable of.

As she watched from the other side of the kitchen window she asked herself, "Was my husband honestly expecting me to continue working regardless of what could have happened to the baby or me?"

Suddenly, her husband leaned back from the table and let out a loud, harsh laugh, almost knocking himself off the chair in the process. "I suppose that is God's way of answering my question," she thought with wry humor and a little twist of fear. She placed both hands protectively over her stomach and silently prayed while Murphy came to stand next to her at the sink.