“You just don’t understand me!” Janette wailed. She turned and slammed the oven door shut, then turned back and hurled, first the casserole of gratin potatoes, then the trivet, and finally the potholders across the kitchen, over the breakfast counter into the living room, where they landed, with various effect, on the cream-colored silk couch.
God, I sound like a character in a daytime TV melodrama, she thought. She pulled a cigarette from the open pack on the back of the stove, thought about lighting it, then stuck it behind her right ear instead. She was getting pretty confident with these outbursts; one of these days she would get up the nerve to do it when he was actually home.
