Eli's Going

Eli raised his arms, threw his head back, and yelled into the sultry, summer night, “I’m in hell!”
“Actually, you’re not in hell, you’re in my backyard,” said Carmen. “Now sit the hell down Eli, you’re making an ass of yourself.”
Eli complied, and Carmen reached into the ice chest next to her lawn chair and pulled out a chilled wine cooler. “Here Eli, drink another cooler.”
As he reached for the peach-flavored wine, Carmen’s foot rose swiftly, the toe of her Doc Marten’s catching him on his chin, breaking his front tooth and sending him reeling backwards until he and the lawn chair he was sitting in landed in a mound of hours-old dachshund dung.
“Asshole,” Carmen remarked, “you didn’t tell me you were an existentialist. If I’d known that, I would have never slept with you. “