Agnes crept about Rittenhouse Square on a dark, dank night. August was always her least favorite month in Philadelphia, the collective humidity, smut, and dirty grime from the city finally getting to her after two months of hot summer. Not like May and October, when the city just sparkled.
But she didn’t really care whether it was soupy outside or snowy. She and Norman had had yet another terrible argument, this time over the kitchen wall colors. Agnes wanted blue walls – a white ceiling, dark blue between the counters and the cabinets, light blue everywhere else.
“Agnes,” Norman had said, that steely note of husbandly disapproval in his voice, “kitchens are always white. We can’t do that, just ridiculous.”
She’d pleaded and argued, she’d moaned and groaned. But Norman would not be dissuaded. No – she’d given in to him on everything else. Not this. So she bolted out of the house into the black darkness.
No comments:
Post a Comment