"Aw, gimme an omelette." Brendel ate a lot lately. His features were
coarsening from it; his body was plumpening.
She argued and protested and whined, and he hit her. But it didn't make
her feel good any more when he hit her.
Kitchen Central was inop for the night. She punched Storage. Dried
ingredients materialized on the cookgrid, a flat metal sheet set into
the countertop.
Later, as she took the omelette up, she heard Brendel setting the opera
tapes. She scowled. But when opera shattered their live she dropped the
skillet and cried, "Oh! Do we have to listen to that trash?" Her voice
was more weary than shrill. The opera routine was getting old.
"What you calling trash?" He twitched his plump shoulders.
"It makes me sick!"
He spat profanity.
It wasn't a good fight. He knew something was wrong and he hit her too
hard. She slugged back, hurt her hand, cursed, ran and locked herself
into the sleep.
She was asleep when he came pounding. She woke and pointed the lock
open. She glared.
He said nothing. He ordered his smaller collections--his miniature
horses, his ballpoint pens and his old-time cereal box missiles--on
to his storeshelf before mounting his sleepshelf and pointing out the
light.
She could hear him not sleeping.