He polishes off what's left of the whiskey on ice and slams the tumbler down hard on the kitchen counter. Tammy Wynette's "Stand By Your Man" blares from the speakers.

He places his hands face down on the counter to lean and stare at the floor. When he looks up, he catches a glimpse of the new reality show about those parents with a dozen kids.

He opens the refrigerator, pours another drink, and walks back to his recliner.

The TV is muted but he notices the parents are having some kind of argument, perhaps about who will take the kids to school.

He takes another gulp of whiskey. Placing the tumbler on the end table, he picks up the photo of himself with Linda.

Closing his eyes, he starts to remember their trip to the coast. He hears the ocean pounding the rocks, tastes the salt air, smells her dark hair, and feels her soft olive skin.

He stares at the diamond on her finger for a long time before the scratching of a record at its end snaps him back to reality.

There are commercials on TV now for erectile dysfunction pills and for a company that exchanges cash for gold.

Another giant gulp of whiskey makes him shiver. He rubs his hands on his eyes, runs his fingers through his thinning hair. Walking to the kitchen, he calmly tosses the picture in the trash.

After taking a hit from the bottle on the counter, he walks into his bedroom and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The image makes him laugh.

Opening the closet, he finds his old desert camouflage jacket and pulls it on. In the nightstand, he finds his trusty .357 and a box of cartridges. He pours the contents of the box onto the bed, picks up five cartridges, and carefully places each into the chamber.

He walks back to the living room, places the gun on top of the stereo, and changes the record.

As Kris Kristofferson sings about “Sunday Morning Coming Down,” he sees the TV again, the parents back on screen having another argument. Maybe this time it’s about where to go to dinner – the build-it-yourself burger joint or the seafood shack Ted and Sharon recommended.

When the song hits its peak, “Lord, I’m wishin’ I was stoned,” he grabs the revolver, whips around, and fires five quick shots at the center of the TV, sending electronic parts flying.

Surveying the damage bores him. He places the revolver on the counter, grabs the whiskey bottle, and saunters to his recliner.

Later, listening to a song about “a bastard child from east Tennessee,” he won’t even flinch when the police kick in his door.