Marathon Man

He crossed the finish line and stretched his arms skywards in celebration. He checked his wristwatch and saw that he'd beaten his personal best yet again. What a day!

There was no time for warming down or exchanging tales and small talk with the other marathon participants. He wandered away from the area where more and more were arriving and found his wife sitting in their old, red Ford Escort.

“Take me home,” he said.

She said nothing and pulled into traffic.

“Stop off at the drive through on the way, will you?”

Again she said nothing and switched lanes to take a right at the next roundabout.

He ate his burger and fries in silence as they neared home.

He walked like a robot thanks to his stiff post-run legs from the car to the house. Once inside he flopped on the sofa and grabbed the remote control. He was stretched out with one arm up in the air, wrist angled to point the zapper straight at the TV, his finger hitting the 'up' button every five seconds or so.

“Do you fancy going to that new pub by the canal?” his wife asked.

He mulled this over for a few seconds whilst frowning.

“I can't be arsed,” he said.