A FEW SHORT STORIES OMNIBUS VOLUME 1
Short Stories by C.D. Reimer
Copyright 2011 C.D. Reimer
Smashwords Edition / April 2011
"The World's Best Coffee" first appeared in the print edition of The MacGuffin (Fall 2009).
"The Uninvited Spook" first appeared in The Storyteller (July/August/September 2008).
"The Forgotten Sinner" first appeared in the print edition of Conceit Magazine (December 2009).
"Pure Indulgence" first appeared in BURST (Spring 2010).
"The Unfaithful Camera" first appeared in Transcendent Visions (January 2010).
All others were originally published as a short story ebook or part of a flash collection ebook.
The cover art image is licensed from http://www.istockphoto.com.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
About The Author:
C.D. Reimer lives and works in Silicon Valley. His interests are ceramics, painting, tropical fish, and web programming. These keep him out of trouble when he’s not fixing broken users and consoling hurt computers.
After serving two tours through The Twilight Zone as a child and a young adult Christian, he writes about everyday reality that he often finds weird, twisted and absurd for being so normal.
He’s
currently working on various short stories and his first novel, and
blogs about writing
and everything
else when he's not busy playing video games
writing fiction.
Connect With Me Online:
Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/cdreimer
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/cdreimer
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/cdreimer
Website: http://www.cdreimer.com
CONTENTS
The Pot Washer's New Magic Trick
THE WORLD'S BEST COFFEE
The coffee shop was crowded with people drinking coffee and eating pastries when Mark walked through the doors to step in front of the pastry display case, where the separate lines for paying and picking up orders at the opposite ends of the counter mingled together. Looking at the pastries with undecided interest, he listened to the new orders being given by the customers and the finished orders being shouted out by one of the Goth girls with multiple nose and ear piercing.
The world’s best coffee should to be a simple affair.
An order for a medium mocha with whip cream by a woman named Georgia caught his attention. Looking over his shoulder when she walked by, he noticed that she was an average-looking woman in trendy workout clothes. If she had a toy dog in hand, she would've blend in well at this European-style shopping center and upscale community. He glanced at the monitor above the espresso machines where the Goth girls kept track of the orders. Georgia’s order was number five, which meant a five-minute wait. He continued looking at the pastries as people jostled around in the lines behind him.
“Medium mocha with whip cream for Georgia,” announced one of the Goth girls, placing the drink on the counter before moving on to the next order. “Your drink is ready.”
Mark stepped in front of Georgia to sweep the counter in one perfect motion to pick up the drink, a heat sleeve, and some napkins. He was out the door before anyone noticed that something was amiss. Once around the corner, he slowed down his pace to blend into the crowd and sip his drink for the first time.
The world’s best coffee should be free.
“Hey, you!”
Mark looked over his shoulder to see Georgia at the corner, waving at him. He frowned. When an order disappears from a crowded coffee shop, the Goth girls get pissed off that they have to make another drink for an already impatient customer. That’s it. Never in all his years of coffee diving has anyone bothered to follow him out.
Turning left into a covered alleyway that served as the outdoor dining area for a seafood restaurant and led to a parking lot on the other side, Mark stepped over the rope fence to enter the restaurant from the side. Walking past the hostess like a customer coming back from the restroom, he sat down in the waiting area with his back against the window and holding the coffee cup between his legs. When Georgia jogged through the alleyway into the parking lot, he went out the front door. He crossed the southbound street, hop-scotched around the large chess pieces on the brown-and-tan flagstone chessboard as the players cursed him for interrupting their game, and crossed the northbound street to blend back into the crowd.
The world’s best coffee should let you enjoy the neighborhood.
“Hey, you!”
No further than the next intersection down did he find Georgia following him again. This time she was across the street as she waited for traffic to clear through the intersection before coming over to him. He pretended not to see her by looking straight ahead. Noticing the bookstore entrance at the corner, he danced through the slow traffic with the coffee held up high on his fingertips like a French waiter with a serving tray, and swung open the door to go inside. He hurried past the cashiers into the magazine section as if he was dying to see the swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated, ducked through the greeting card section, and made his way over to the metaphysical section with the tarot cards and reading the future books. His immediate future looks dicey if this persistent woman didn’t get off his case. Coffee diving shouldn’t take this much effort. With the corner of a bookshelf and the drink raised to his lips to hide his presence, he watched her come through the front doors.
The world’s best coffee should let you appreciate the deeper meaning of life.
Georgia came in breathless. She had one hand hanging on to something inside the front pocket of her sweatshirt that Mark hadn’t noticed before. He frowned. Cell phone?
When she talked to the cashiers, one of them pointed towards the metaphysical section. He slipped into the manga section where some teenagers—and some adults who never quite grew up —were sitting on the floor to read their favorite manga. With a watchful eye on where she was among the bookshelves, he passed through the history section to find the elevator hidden away at the back of the literature section. Exiting the elevator at the second floor, he walked over to the crowded cafe to pick up The Wall Street Journal from a table, sat down with his back against the wall with the coffee placed between his legs again, and waited with the paper raised up in front of him.
Georgia came up the escalator as expected, made one circuit around the floor without glancing at the cafe, and went back down the escalator. He read an article on how more people are drinking specialty coffees than plain old regular coffee these days.
When he finished off his drink, he threw both the coffee cup and the newspaper into the trash, and stepped out on to the balcony over the bookstore entrance that had an excellent view of the shopping center. On the street below was a parked police cruiser, a police officer and Georgia. She pulled something out of the front of her sweatshirt to hand over to the officer. He froze.
A black leather tri-fold wallet.
Mark’s hand crept to the back pocket where he kept his wallet to find the usual bulge gone. That was his wallet down there. No wonder she’s been persistent. Maybe it wasn’t about the coffee after all.
“Hey, you!” Georgia pointed up at him. The officer looked up. “You drop your wallet at the coffee shop.” She then turned to the officer, still pointing at him. “This is the creep who stole my coffee.”
Perhaps this wasn’t the world’s best coffee after all.
THE UNINVITED SPOOK
He adjusted the parabolic microphone to aim at the apartment building across the street. The angle wasn’t perfect for this type of surveillance since he had to hide in the shadows of an air conditioning unit under a clear night sky with a rising full moon. With advanced notice, he could’ve gotten a room a few floors below with a better line of sight than this.
With the small binoculars hanging around his neck, he surveyed the suspected apartment at the southwest corner of the building and thirteen stories above downtown. The kitchen window on the south side was brightly illuminated to reveal two women—one older, one younger—fussing over something coming out of the oven. He turned up the volume for his headphones.
“Hey, Gracie,” a woman voice said, not visible from the window. “Where’s your husband?”
“George should be here any minute,” the older woman said, putting a tray of appetizers into the oven. “Unless he got stuck in traffic or caught up with work.”
Indeed, he mused, where‘s George tonight?
The west side of the apartment is where the darkened bedroom windows are located. Satisfied that no one occupied those rooms, he readjusted that parabolic microphone to the balcony on the southwest corner, with glass doors looking into the living room. Three old men in business suits stood together at the railing, paying more attention to their drinks than either the traffic below or the night skies above.
“Do you think George should retire?” the man on the left said. “Seventy-five is too old even for the civil service and it’s very unlikely that the next administration will appoint him to anything important.”
“Of course not,” the man on the right said. “The Agency should assign him a desk job to push paperwork like the rest of us, and let him choke to death on a Philly steak sandwich during his lunch break.”
“That’s being cruel,” the middle man said. Before the right man could respond, he turned towards the balcony doors and shouted: “Where’s your husband?”
“He’ll be dead if he doesn’t show up soon,” Gracie shouted back, sounding close but far away. She wasn’t visible in either the kitchen or living room windows. “Retirement will be the least of his problems.”
He chuckled. Gracie could always be counted to ride the tail end of a conversation.
“I think—” the middle man started.
“Let’s not go there,” the right man jumped in. “A thinking spook is always bad for the spy business.”
The left man choked on his drink trying to laugh.
“Thinking is bad for you,” the middle man retorted. “No, I was thinking that George should be assigned as the station chief in Moscow.”
Moscow?
“Moscow!” the right man said, spilling his drink. “What the hell for?”
The middle man held up his hand. “He’s the last of the old school Kremlinologists still working. If the Russian spies were returning to the KGB playbook of spies assassinating spies in Europe, and pushing for another Cold War with the United States, a veteran spymaster like him would be perfect. His appointment would create a stir in the intelligence community since he’s so well known. While everyone is focused on him, we can insert a younger agent to run the show behind his back.”
“The perfect figurehead,” the left man mused. “Good idea.”
He snorted. What are these idiots thinking?
Then he noticed the curtain twitching in the rear bedroom window. Pointing his binoculars in that direction, he saw the brief opening and closing of the bedroom door against a brightly lit hallway. He frowned.
“Exactly,” the middle man chimed in. “He’s more paranoid than the Russians are themselves.”
The old men laughed.
Idiots.
The right man spoke over his shoulder to the balcony doors. “I don’t suppose Gracie would care to live in Moscow again?”
“Oh, hell no,” she replied, still sounding very close and far away, and not visible from any window. “You can’t have a decent fight with your husband without half the wives of the Politburo finding out first. The eighties were the pits.”
He smiled as the old men chuckled. The eighties were indeed the pits. When had serving in Moscow ever been a good thing?
Scanning all the windows again, he still couldn’t see Gracie. The other women—including the one he heard but haven’t seen before—gathered up trays of food to take out of the kitchen. The old men went back inside as the women cried out that the food was ready. The headphones buzzed with small talk of food, grandkids and real estate prices.
He leaned back against the air conditioning unit to ponder what he heard so far this evening. What’s an old spook supposed to do at the end of his career? It’s a question that had bothered him for years. Neither a desk job nor a figurehead position sounds appealing. Short of dying in the field or writing a kiss-and-tell memoir, there’s never been a good alternative for an old spook.
He didn’t hear the rooftop door open with a loud click behind him with the headphones on. He did feel the business end of a semiautomatic gun nestled itself behind his right ear, and he held still as a shadow loomed over him. His headphones were jerked off his head and thrown against the parabolic microphone.
“What’s wrong with you?” Gracie asked in a tight whisper. He looked over his shoulder. It was just the two of them on the roof, with a gentle breeze and moonlight reflecting off of her Glock 23. He gave it to her as an anniversary present a few years ago. “You were supposed to be home an hour ago.”
He pushed the gun away from with one gloved finger. “There are spooks in our apartment.”
“The only friends you have are spooks, honey,” she said, withdrawing the gun. “It supposed to be a surprise birthday party for you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It was meant to be a surprise.”
“So?”
“What part of surprise don’t you understand?”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“God!” she screamed at the night sky, scaring some nearby roosting birds into flight. “My mother was right that I should’ve never married a spook—especially a paranoid Kremlinologist. You and your stupid games.”
“Honey—”
“I don’t want to hear it. Pack up your equipment and come home. You better have a good excuse for being late when you show up. I’m not covering for you.”
“I was spying on the roof, listening to my traitorous friends talk shop, and my beloved wife of thirty years pulls a gun on me.”
“That’ll work,” she said, pocketing her gun. “Except no one will believe that you’re a pistol-whipped husband.”
He chortled. “How about shooting me in the leg so I can stagger in to tell a wild story?”
“Don’t tempt me.” She turned around and left, letting the rooftop door slam behind her.
He smiled and looked back through the binoculars. Now it was time to play the spooks at their own game with a suave entrance and witty party conversation based on the intelligence he gathered. This is going to be the best “surprise” birthday party he had in years.
THE FORGOTTEN SINNER
An old man with a long white beard stood in the crowded waiting room before Peter at the Pearly Gates to Heaven, waiting patiently for the tireless saint's attention. He shuffled forward to the desk when a cherub called out his number.
Peter looked up over his spectacles from the worn pages of the Book of Life. "What’s your story?"
"I was a young man when my minister said he would explain to me how to get right with God, but he needed to call me back later. I waited, waited, waited--and waited some more. He never did call me back no matter how many times I left a message. As you can see, I'm an old man now and still not right with God. I guess my minister forgot all about me."
“Your minister...” Peter riffled through the recent pages of the Book of Life to find an entry, reading out aloud: "To his wife and children, he always forgot to say, ‘I love you.’ To his parishioners, he always forgot his notes for the sermon. To the lost, he always forgot their phone numbers. And, to the Lord, he always forgot to say, ‘Amen!’”
“That’s terrible!”
“Yes, indeed,” Peter sighed, taking off his spectacles to wipe them clean with a cloth. “A rather forgetful fellow for someone in the ministry.”
"Can I still get into Heaven, sir?” the old man pleaded, wringing his beard with both hands. “The gentleman downstairs said he’s double booked with no end in sight and he sent me up here. I have nowhere else to go. I’d waited such a long time to get right with God."
“Let me check.” Peter flipped over to a blank page in the Book of Life before picking up his pen. "I just need to put you on the waiting list for Heaven.”
“How long is the waiting list?”
“Eternity."
The old man almost fainted. “Why must I continue to wait so long?”
“See any cherub wearing a Rolex to tell time around here?” Peter asked, waving his pen around. “Don’t feel bad. I’m still waiting for my lunch break.”
UNCLE FRED'S WILD SPLASH HIT
Uncle Fred stepped up to the plastic laundry bucket that served as home plate for the baseball diamond in Grandma’s huge backyard. With his beer belly hanging out between his ragged T-shirt and cut-off jeans, he tapped the sides of his ratty running shoes with the baseball bat. He was ready to play ball. Everyone behind him on sat on chairs, coolers and blankets to watch the annual family reunion baseball game. He was going to win big today.
When the 14-year-old pitcher—his wife’s kid sister—stuck her tongue out at him, he ignored the taunt by pointing his bat towards the neighbor’s house with the swimming pool in the backyard. The relatives laughed behind his back. She rolled her eyes, spit on the ground and whipped her ponytail behind her. He ignored them all and raised his bat.
The ball came faster than he expected
Which shouldn't surprise him at all. His sister-in-law did play baseball after school, wore her team cap and had lamp black under her eyes, and was dead serious about pitching. Swinging the bat as hard as he could, he smacked the ball out of sight. Everyone leaned forward to see the ball splash down into the swimming pool.
KA-CRACK!
Everyone looked back over at Grandma’s house to see the broken kitchen window, where the ball splashed down into the sink with the dirty dishes. Uncle Fred held his fist to his mouth in shock, letting the bat drop to the ground and holding one foot pressed against his foreleg like a little boy who needed to go wee-wee really, really bad. The pitcher collapsed to the ground in screaming laughter.
“Someone is in big trouble!” Grandma shouted, her voice thundering through the broken window. “I’m getting my belt!”
Uncle Fred looked around in panic at the familiar faces staring back at him. All grins and smirks at his misfortune, even his wife was laughing behind her hand. Someone was getting a whipping from Grandma and nothing could stop that. The only friendly face he did see was that of a sweet toddler sitting by herself on a blanket. He picked her up and carried her over to home plate, where he put his baseball bat next to her.
Grandma came out through the back door. She wore a bright blue sundress, knee-high stockings and steel-toed work boots, and her left hand held an old leather belt at her side. Everyone became quiet—including the pitcher, lying on the ground with both hands covering her mouth—to see what would happen next.
“Who broke my window?” Grandma asked, looking directly at Uncle Fred.
“She did it!” Uncle Fred squealed in a high voice, pointing his shaking finger at the little girl. “She broke your window.”
Grandma smiled at the little girl, who was naked except for a diaper, a pacifier in her mouth and a pink ribbon in her long hair. “Hi, sweetie.”
The little girl smiled back, waving her hand at Grandma.
Uncle Fred was also smiling until Grandma gave him a stern frown that meant trouble. The little girl’s mother—a younger cousin from his side of the family—stood behind her with an angry glare at him. He swallowed hard.
“You think I’m that stupid?” Grandma asked quietly.
“Sure,” Uncle Fred said, blurting it out. "I mean—"
Grandma’s free hand shot out to find his ear, pinching him hard enough to make him cry, and pulled him back into the house despite his protests that he’s too old for a spanking. The pitcher busted out in screaming laugher again, turning over on her back to kick the ground with her feet. Everyone else started talking, snickering and laughing. The little girl clapped her hands in joy when her mother picked her up. The annual family reunion game ended with the batter being whipped for a wild foul ball.
BLIND FAITH
Jack turned the page of his textbook when the front door slammed shut to rattle the kitchen window, heralding the return of his roommate. Dan came in from the hallway to drop his gym bag on the kitchen table without bothering to look. He caught the glass of water that almost tipped over to spill on the papers before him, biting back a colorful remark. While Dan walked around their tiny living room with a too thoughtful look on his face, he folded his arms and waited for their weekly argument about the sacred and the profound to begin.
“Hey, bro!” Dan said, stopping to realize that he wasn't alone in the apartment. “What’s up?”
With final exams at the university a week away, what’s up should have been quite obvious. Unfortunately, Dan’s grasp of the obvious was almost as tenuous as his grasp on reality. Something Jack hadn’t realized until they started sharing an off-campus apartment three years ago.
When Dan reached over to open the patio blinds, Jack cleared his throat. “What are you doing?”
“It’s dark in here,” Dan replied, puzzled for being questioned by something so seemingly obvious. “Why is it dark in here?”
“It’s hot outside.”
“Why are you in the darkness?”
“The blinds are closed to keep the living room cool.”
“Nonsense—let there be light!” Dan opened the blinds with a dramatic flourish by yanking on the cord. The sunlight and afternoon heat poured into the living room to chase away the shadows and the morning coolness. “You’re in the darkness because your soul is dark!”
Jack sighed. “So the kitchen light doesn’t count for anything?”
“A nightlight couldn’t save your dark soul.” Dan looked at the kitchen table. “What are you studying?”
“Biology.”
“Another reason why you’re going to Hell!”
“Biology is a graduation requirement, intelligent design isn’t.” Jack looked at his watch. “I don’t have time to play devil’s advocate with you.”
“I knew it!” Dan pointed an accusing finger at him with a gleeful smile. “You’re in league with the Devil.”
“Devil’s advocate—arguing the opposite viewpoint, especially if you don't believe it—is a debating technique.” Jack picked up his book bag from the floor to gather up his textbook and papers. “Didn’t you learn anything from the twenty or so majors you've abandoned over the last five years?”
“Only the will of God.”
“Didn’t you flunk that course?”
“Why do we always get into an argument when I talk to you about your spirituality?” Dan’s expression became that of hurt sincerity. “I’m just trying to help you.”
“Don’t you ever read your Bible?” Jack threw his book bag over his shoulder. “You’re doing this without love. You’re just a legalistic windbag who drives people away. Those are great qualities for a lawyer but not a human being. Have you ever thought about becoming a lawyer?”
“Lawyers are scumbags.”
“True. But sometimes you need to follow where your talents leads you. With your grades and course credits, you should be able to get into law school next year.”
Dan snorted. “I want to be a world-class evangelist where the entire world falls down at my feet to worship God.”
“A broad road traveled by many wannabe messiahs better than you—and most have the decency to graduate from school.” Jack walked into the hallway. “I’m going over to the library where it’s cool, quiet and well lit. I got finals to study for.”
“Suit yourself.” Dan took his Bible out from his gym bag on the table and sat down on the sofa to read. He then looked around. “Hey, bro, where’s the fan?”
“Broken,” Jack said from the doorway. “That’s why I closed the blinds this morning.”
“Oh,” Dan said, realizing something obvious. “Why didn’t you say so?”
The front door slammed shut, rattling the kitchen window.
THE OLD FRENCHMAN
Private Flanagan halted the old man at the gates of the makeshift camp that the American Army established after storming the beaches of Normandy on June 6, 1944. While the fighting between the Allies and the Germans could still be heard over yonder at the front lines two months later, the only fighting in this desolated region of France was the occasional fist fight from someone cutting in line at the local whorehouse.
After searching the pockets of the tattered coat and the lunch bucket that sat in the wheelbarrow, the private asked the old man the same questions in broken French to get back the same answers in broken English. The old man considered himself to be something of a comedian. The private regarded him more like the village idiot. With a severe reluctance that ended their daily conversations, the private stepped aside to let the old man amble down the country dirt road with his lunch box and the wheelbarrow.
“Why keep bothering him?” Private Smith asked in his Texas drawl, leaning against the gatehouse with folded arms. “He’s a poor soul trying to make a buck in this godforsaken hellhole.”
“He’s a thief,” Private Flanagan said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “I come from a long line of New York cops. I know a thief when I see one.”
“What’s he stealing then?”
Private Flanagan shrugged his shoulders. “He comes in every morning with his coat and lunch bucket. He leaves every afternoon with his coat and lunch bucket in the wheelbarrow. He’s stealing something right underneath my nose. I just don't know what it could be.”
“Maybe he’s stealing nothing. I think you don't like him because his broken English is better than your broken French.”
“He’s a thief,” Private Flanagan said, scoffing. "A goddamn frog that's stealing from the U.S. of A."
“Now you’re being crazy.”
The changing of the guard took place an hour later.
“I hope you guys like scutwork,” said one of the two privates replacing them. “The quartermaster says all his wheelbarrows are missing. He’s turning the entire camp upside down to find them all.”
“Missing wheelbarrows?” Private Smith said, looking at them as if they were both stupid. “How does a bunch of wheelbarrows go missing in the middle of a goddamn war?”
The privates looked at each other and shrugged.
“Wheelbarrows,” Private Flanagan said to himself, looking down the road for a long moment. “That’s it!”
“What’s it?” Private Smith asked, bewildered.
“The old man is stealing the wheelbarrows. Every morning he comes in with his jacket and lunch bucket. Every afternoon he leaves with his stuff in the wheelbarrow. He must have them stacked up in a barn somewhere.”
Private Flanagan jumped into a nearby jeep, started the engine, and drove off into the countryside to the village. The other privates stared after him, watching the dust tail kicked up by the tires until he disappeared over the hill.
“Why would anyone want to steal wheelbarrows in the middle of a goddamn war?” Private Smith asked, scratching his head. The other privates shrugged their shoulders again. “Everyone is crazy.”
JESUS SAVES YOU MONEY
“Jesus here,” the Mexican-accented voice said on the phone. “What can I do for you?”
“Are you that Jesus?” I asked, pleading.
“You mean Gee-zus?” the voice replied, sounding somewhat amused. “The Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost, and whatever else you want Him to be these days?”
“Yeah, that's the guy I'm looking for.”
“Sorry, amigo, you got the wrong phone number.”
“Who are you then?”
“I’m Hey-seus, not Gee-zus," Jesus on the phone said. "I can save you money if you have a landscaping or home repair job. I fix broken toilets, not broken souls. A huge difference, amigo.”
“That’s not what your sign says,” I demanded. "It said nothing about broken toilets."
“What does my sign say?”
“Your sign says, ‘Jesus Saves,’ with this phone number.”
“There’s no ‘You Money’ and 'On Odd Jobs' underneath the phone number?”
“Nope.”
“Where’s that sign located?”
“Off the old highway near the county line.”
“Thanks.” A pencil scratched a pad in the background. “I’ll have that sign replace. Have a good day, amigo.”
“Wait a minute!”
“Now what?”
"Why would anyone name their kid after Jesus the Messiah?"
"Probably for the same reason people name their kids after Adolf the Dictator. It's a really popular name in some parts of the world."
"Yeah, right."
"Now good day, amigo."
“I still need help with God!” I shouted, this time not pleading.
“Find a phone book and look under ‘churches’ in the yellow pages,” Jesus on the phone said, chuckling. “Remember that Gee-zus will save your broken soul but He won’t save you money like Hey-seus can when it comes to fixing your broken toilet.”
PURE INDULGENCE
When his wife busted into the downstairs bathroom, he knew his illicit affair was all over when she caught him red-handed with a pint of double fudge ice cream. Pulling the spoon out of his mouth to lick off the last bit of sweetness with his tongue and sitting there on the toilet seat cover in his business suit with a loosened tie while she watched didn’t help. She was angry and there was hell to pay.
“How could you do this?” she demanded, pointing her finger into his face. “You came home on Friday afternoons not to work but to stuff your face. You broke the vow we made on our wedding anniversary this year to lose weight together.”
She grabbed the carton from his hand, and threw it against the splash wall above the bathtub. Light and dark brown ice cream splattered against the pristine white tiles under the harsh fluorescent light. The carton fell into the bathtub with a loud thump, splattering more droplets of cold sweetness everywhere.
“Now, honey.” He waved the spoon at her as if she was an overreacting child. “Let’s talk about—”