Fictionlet
Brigid shuffled out into the living room, hair frightful, eyes twitching. As always, Greg was in the kitchen, and of course he was singing.
“No one to talk with, all by myself,” he sang. “No one to walk with, but I’m happy on the shelf! Ain’t misbehavin’, savin’ myself for you…”
She shuffled her way to one of the stools at the bar and deposited herself on it. Before she’d said a word, Greg had slid a large cup of coffee in front of her, singing, “Like Jack Horner, in the corner, don’t go nowhere, what do I care? Your kisses are worth waiting for … belieeeeeeve me!”
“Geeze man,” she croaked. “What is it with you?”
He turned back from his frying pan to look at her. “What do you mean?”
“Every frickin’ morning you’re in here, chirpy as a meadowlark, no matter what horrors were inflicted the night before. And look at this, you’ve served me frickin’ coffee, while mangling Louis Armstrong amiably. It ain’t natural!”
“Would you rather I mangled Irving Berlin? The weather is frightening, the thunder and lightning, all seem to be having their way! But as long as I can be with you, it’s a lovely day…”
“No! Sweet merciful heaven, no!” She buried her face in her hands.
Greg tsked. “No pleasing some people,” he said, and turned back to his eggs.
-The Gneech
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