Feeling bloated and wrinkled, Gertie stood hunched over the sink in her apron and paisley house dress, chopping onions for the omelet she was preparing. Just so Herb could drive their nine-year old Plymouth to the same damned accounting job he’d been stuck in the past seventeen years. Her reading glasses fell off her face into the raw egg batter.
Gertie broke down. Nothing ever went right where Herb was concerned. What ever happened to the days when she won all those statues for ballet performances? And what ever happened to her lithe figure, the one that’d excited so many admirers? She looked like a square box these days.
Herb sauntered into the kitchen with that smirk on the blotchy face she’d come to despise. Gertie went back to cleaning her glasses.
“Puddin’, add some sour cream in my eggs today. And make my coffee black,” Herb said.
Gertie looked over her left shoulder – oh, how her upper back twinged when she did that.
“Look. You want eggs, Herb? Well, here are your god-damned eggs.”
Gertie picked up the box of eggs and tossed them against the fridge. She walked out the kitchen door a right across the street. And a bus flattened her dead.
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