The grandfather clock ticked away the seconds in a jagged staccato.
“Once again,” Bobby continued, dropping his eyes to the floor throwing his baritone down, where it bounced off the hardwood floor and nailed a stake of dread in Ken’s heart. “It’s all about you, isn’t it?”
“What I’m saying is this,” Ken stammered out, aware that Bobby was doing it again, “I have a right to be angry about the paintings. We agreed –“
“This isn’t about the paintings, this is about your need to control every situation –“
“We agreed that we’d buy the wall hangings together and that they’d be something we both liked. You went ahead and bought four large paintings, and hung them all, without even asking me.”
“Do you really hate them that much? I was sure you’d love them. They’re perfect.”
The dog – Bobby’s choice, yet again – walked on over and stuck his head on Ken’s lap. “What is it, Buddy?” But Ken knew already what Buddy wanted – a walk, just like always. Bobby never walked Buddy. Somehow, over the years, that’d become Ken’s job – three times, every day.
“And I don’t hate them. That’s not the point! The point is that, once again, you made a decision without even consulting me! And we’d agreed … by your own words … that we wouldn’t hang anything that didn’t have our mutual agreement.”
“Well, just give me this one time. But why does it always have to be all about you?”
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