Strangers
“At the counter, Beth, in her housecoat, poured herself coffee in a yellow “Smiley Face” mug and then came to join him. Through the east window, the sun cast a sharply angled parallelogram between them on the butcher block table.
“Good eggs,” Michael said. He performed a Groucho Marx, eyebrow waggling leer. “Eggs help a man restore some of his recently drained vital juices.”
Beth laughed. “Michael, you are terrible.”
“I yam what I yam and ‘at’s all what I yam,’ Michael grinned, left eye set in a Popeye squint.
The portable radio on the counter reported the eight o’clock weather forecast. The start of the work week would be—“What else, Chicagoland?” demanded a manic deejay—another scorcher, temperature near 90, humidity near “hideous!”
Michael said, “We could use a good rain, break this heat wave.”
“It would help,” Beth agreed.
Same old scene in the same old script, Michael thought. Breakfast: The Husband and The Wife discuss The Weather, and then, naturally, The Kids.
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