“Let’s face it, Agnes, Mr. Smith isn’t exactly Noel Coward or Fred Astaire. When I caught him in the lunch room, kissing Mrs. Findlay, I practically fell out of my dress laughing. Then Mrs. Findlay made a maelstrom of a face and stormed out of the room, her mile-high hair bouncing on top of her head. Mr. Smith quivered, shaking in his oversized suit.”
Cristina laughed so hard, her breasts bounced up and down and her glasses fell down her nose. She had to right them before continuing. Agnes sensed rather than saw Norman’s jaw tighten and his lips press together like a vise. That’s what he did when he thought someone was being stupid – and she knew he thought Cristina was foolish.
Stupid, such a harsh word. Agnes shuddered at the condemnation she felt emanating from her right side. Cristina was so smart, too – really wise and insightful, though she couldn’t understand why she didn’t appreciate Norman. All she ever did was make fun of his angular mannerisms.
“Mr. Smith means well, Cristina,” Norman volleyed back in a cutting, staccato voice, “and he is a gentleman. The way you talk, he should be spitting snuff and walking barefoot behind a barn, carrying a spade. He’s always had good manners to me, at least.”
“Tell that to Mrs. Findlay, Norman,” and she laughed again, “or just take a look at the red imprint of her fingers on his sallow face.”
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