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Sybil slapped four slices of bacon into the electric frying pan. She could hear her husband Sid in the bathroom and knew that when he came out, he’d be ill-tempered because the alarm clock hadn’t gone off this morning and he feared being late on this, his first morning tutoring the wealthy Dunlap sisters. If she had her way she’d be lolling in bed right now, instead of staring at raw meat and slimy eggs, but she’d made a vow long ago that she’d never force her husband into making his own breakfast—the way her mother had forced her to as a child. Not that he gives a damn, she muttered, stepping back to escape a sizzling spit of bacon grease.
“For Chrissakes, isn’t breakfast ready yet?” Sid poked his head in the kitchen door, his fingers working at the buttons of his short-sleeved blue shirt. His eyes were still puffy with sleep.
Sid sat down at the table, throwing the morning paper to the floor and sliced a wedge of butter to scrape over the toast that Sybil had dumped over his shoulder and onto his plate. The irritating noise was torture to her as she was already beginning a sinus headache from the heavy Los Angeles summer time smog inversion that had settled over the valley, and it was all she could do to keep from screaming at him. Wordlessly, she served him breakfast and sat down opposite him with a cup of black coffee. Sybil never ate breakfast; maybe because she’d cooked so many over the seven years of marriage.
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.