Behind him, the door swooshes open. She bustles through the kitchen, grabbing and discarding the faded red towel to swipe clean her hands without slowing her pace.
Glad that she has come, and passed him by, he continues his sitting.
Photente. What an odd word, blinking at him from the screen like a footprint on a clean sand beach, like a single set of headlights down an old backwoods road.
In the other room, the yelling starts. A crash signals that she is displeased with something. He hopes the spell will not last too long or be too bad. Once started, she can go on for hours, spiraling through a dark mania of every slight and sorrow. Sometimes she flames out quickly, giving herself a little shake and going on about the household affairs.
The cat escapes the storm of noise in a brown-and-white blur, and dashes under his legs to hide.
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