February the Twenty-Fifth. Opus and the Daily Practice. Hangry.

In the kitchen with the single-pane window full of gold light, Lloyd kissed Harriet and told her he was sorry, he shouldn’t have said the things he did. He said they should both enjoy a quiet dinner together and put an end to the fight right there, that it was hardly a fight at all.  Lloyd put the game on the new set in the corner of the dining room and the kitchen filled up with static and Vin’s deep velvety voice. Then Lloyd sat down at the table in his dirty coveralls. This was Lloyd’s earned television and dinner time, he was not going to spend the night fighting and shouting. He preferred a quiet night. Was that so much? He watched the boys take the field and could smell Harriet fixing a plate of roast. It got him wanting his cigarettes so he got up to get that pack. When he came back, he sat down again and lit a cigarette, getting ready for Harriet to say something. He felt himself getting defensive about her rebuke of the cigarette and the ball game to come. When Harriet sat down, she had two plates of roast in front of her, his and hers. She had the milk bottle uncapped and was drinking from that for a long time. She wiped her small mouth and looked with her big eyes at him. The milk and then the roast. Her plate first and then his. She forked it all up. Then, when Lloyd tried to ask what the hell she was doing, she got up and walked out. On the television, the announcer said there would be a change to the lineup. It was a rookie from the farm system. FDM.