The television came on again but all Daphne got out of it was snow. She threw the remote at the monitor. “Horsefeathers! You deal with it, Giles. I give up.”
“Now, Daphne, sweetheart” her husband said, that pouty scolding tone coming back into his voice, “you know very well I can’t fiddle with electronica. Reading those pesky user manuals give me a sick headache.”
Daphne groaned. Giles was always complaining of a sick headache these days. “Where’d you put your reading glasses?”
He raised his brows and narrowed his eyes. “On the end table, where I always put them.”
“They’re not there,” Daphne said, hands on hips and wondering why their Friday evening was being wasted on cheap plastic crap from China. “I can’t very well look at the DVD player if I can’t see that damned black-on-black print they put on these damned machines.”
“You’re the one who wants to watch ‘Rashomon’ tonight,” Giles said, all puffed up. “Not me. I’d have been perfectly happy to play gin rummy.”
“We’ve had the movie from Netflix almost a week. It’s about time. Drats, you lost your reading glasses. Magnifying glass? Flashlight?”
“That’s James’s routine, not mine. Why don’t you call customer service?”
Twenty minutes waiting for someone to pick up the phone, make her go through everything she’d already tried, and come from half way around the world with an incomprehensible accent?
“I’d rather eat my fingernails.”
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