Ten terminal termites twittering tearfully in the tent.
“Seriously?” she said solipsistically, seemingly speaking to the silent suite. “Ardent alliteration absent any appropriate atmosphere? Maybe my mother might have made a monitum to me before I married such a moppet.”
Rhonda released the ream she was reading and reached around the rear of the radiator, retrieving the roll of Rhode Island quarters. Obviously, outrage outstripped other, more overtly-obsessive reactions. The earliest he could even entertain entry into the event would be eleven days from now; enough time to engage him in earnest entreaties to end this extravagant escapade. Failing that… she faltered, feeling the finished firmness of the quarters in her fist. How she hated hinging her happiness on such happenings. And violence, in her view, was so very, very vexing.
