Tuesday

Tuesday, she made him a drink.

He was seated in the armchair. It was 7:02 p.m. Dinner had been served at 6:00 p.m., after which the kitchen was so thoroughly cleanedthat not even a single crumb remained. He had not spoken to her during or after the meal, although he had said a few words under his breath to himself. The frequency in which he spoke was so low however, that she could not make out exactly what he was saying. It did not seem directed at her, so she disregarded it. The temperature inthe room was just as he liked it, 75 degrees, which suited his comfortlevel.

She carefully set the glass tumbler on a coaster on the side table next to his armchair. He took it without looking at her and sipped. Then he grimaced.

“This tastes like crap!” he screamed, swiping at her with one hand and throwing the glass with the other. The tumbler hit the stone fireplace sending shards ofglass across the carpeted floor. Some landed by her feet. “Can’t you do anything right?