After the Party by Lynn Townsend
The clank and wheeze of the old dishwasher covered the creative and swift-flowing profanities. Paxton got his feet under himself—lift with your legs, not your back, i***t—and heaved. The mahogany table groaned and settled upright with a floor-shaking thud. A shower of crushed chips, balled-up napkins, and those annoying little pencils people use for marking mini-golf scores spilled onto the carpet. Astonishing how they could flip the table over and then use it as a trashcan, he reflected.
“Good morning, sunshine.”
Paxton whirled at the sudden voice behind him. Jeremy leaned against the banister, toothpick in his mouth stuck upward at a jaunty angle. He was mostly naked, a pair of bright yellow boxers with the Mr. Yuck poison-face on them hugging his hips
