PHYLLIS MOORE
EGGSHELLS
She was not going to let him off so easy this time. This time she
was going to understand. That would fix him. She'd smuggled
the alarm to the couch with her the night before, knowing full
well that he would oversleep and be irritated by this. Knowing
full well that he would arrive in the kitchen, bear-sleepy, and
find her in the full-scale glory of Brillo righteousness and be
irritated by this. Knowing full well. Her heart had always been
half Clorox. The last time he'd done it, a newborn left alone to
fingerlick the floorboards would have come to no harm.
"Morning, hon." Comma. Indicates a separation of ideas or
elements.
"Morning." Period. Indicates a full stop, placed at the end of
declarative sentences and other statements thought to be complete.
He tried to look sheepish, offered a shrug, and swept across
the white-on-white linoleum in calmish, lawyer stride. She
couldn't believe him: the way he walked blithely by, owning the
appliances, owning the cabinets. This was not his kitchen; she
was the one who had created, deliberately, this mood, this
effect-made it look like all her relatives' kitchens-all avocado
and placemats. Smart rayon curtains and pots piled in concentric
circles, hermetically sealed behind noiseless cupboards. This
was a kitchen in which knives were wiped and wiped, between
slices. This was a kitchen in which meals, balanced and colorcoded, were served at decent, American intervals. She couldn't
believe the smugness in his walk across her utensil-strung,
pasteurized creation. She had known him when there were
insects in his refrigerator, when so much as a piece of toast was a
gamble. And now... she had brought him up to this... Kitchen
Aid.
But he was immune to mood. He was into facts. Facts like a
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