SmokeLong Quarterly

Mary was fed up with Bob and let him know in unmistakable terms. Slamming the stirring spoon against the lid of the pot she thought, “Take that, Bob,” leaning on the “Bob.”

She stomped around the kitchen, flinging a dish towel at the sink, shoveling plates and glasses out of the drainer into their cupboards, slamming the doors so hard they bobbed against their closures. The circle of cat on the humming clothes dryer briefly considered the volume and velocity of the kitchen activity and decided this would be the day to spend quality time near the bird feeders. The circle changed to a line, then suddenly to a swoosh as the laundry basket turned into a destination for aSet featured image flying object.

The cat door swatted shut.

Deflating, running down on anger and annoyance, Mary slumped on her elbows against the counter. “I am so fed up with Bob,” she mused now in silent melancholy. But it would be wasteful to discard any. Mary had always prided herself on three things – her happy marriage, her frugality, and her cooking ability.

With a pragmatic sigh, she reflected now there were just two points of pride — frugality and cooking. Bob on a bun with a delicate smear of dressing, Bob fried and topped with freshly grated Parmesan, Bob stewed with sun dried tomatoes.

Opening the pot lid, she gently stirred the contents.