Norman walked over to the bed, naked and flopping around. “It’s not my job to cook meals, Agnes, it’s yours. And playing the piano doesn't matter as a job."
For once, his body failed to sway her. “Put something on, Norman, it’s January. High time you started helping out. I cook your meals, I clean the house, I do your laundry, I do the shopping, I take care of the children. All you do is go to work, design stupid buildings nobody likes, and play with the children.”
“If I didn’t go to work, Agnes, we’d have no roof over our heads,” he fumed. “We’ll talk about this another time. For now, no piano competition,” He turned from her and headed to the closet.
She looked at his bouncing behind. A little saggy, she noticed, even at thirty-five. He dressed while she giggled to herself. What would Norman look like as he aged? She’d enjoy it when he turned forty-five and began to wrinkle. Then perhaps his ego would come down to Earth.
Done dressing, Norman headed for the door – and stopped. She felt the accusation coming. “By the way, is this why you’ve been playing the same damned music for three months?”
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