She lowered the limp spaghetti onto the mahogany in front of him.
The sound rattled neither of them.
He wound it around the prongs so slowly, steadily, like a water hose she would never leave in the yard for fear of killing the grass.
He had always been meticulous, you see.
Salt, one shake. Pepper, three.
Steak on Sunday, spaghetti on Monday.
He found her cooking boring and she knew because he had told her.
You see, people should know where there is room for improvement.
She looked him right in the eyes through the bottom of his red wine glass.
There was dust on the rim, she could see it.
The second hand marched on until the oven timer shrieked.