Read Online A Neverending Affair by Kopen Hagen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kopen Hagen
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tornadoes in the States. And how to judge the rising property prices in London? It depends on whether you are a buyer, a real estate tycoon or if you just sit there in your ever more valuable flat and feel good about it. It gets really tricky to judge the review of the latest thriller by John Grisham. It seems to be on the critical side. But hell, the guy will sell millions anyway, so why bother about a critical review in IHT. The only news piece I can find from Sweden is that the female party leader of the former communist party goes public, on TV, about her alcoholism. Is that good or bad? Admitting the problem is the first step to recovery. It is almost like a cease-fire with Chechnyan rebels.” At this point the people at the neighboring tables had started to stare at him. “And, listen to this one: a woman, an American woman—who else would even dream about it—has sued her therapist because of her divorce. The couple had been to marriage consulting five times trying to fix their broken marriage, but in the end the guy still wants a divorce, and now she sues the therapist. She wants him to pay damages of 20 million dollars. Is that not good news?” He panted, catching his breath.
She burst out laughing, not so much for what he said but how h e said it and the speed at which he spoke. “Enough, enough, I give up. I can’t eat breakfast and listen to this mesmerizing account of the beauty of this world.”
He folded the newspaper and looked her sternly into the eyes: “ There is a nasty world out there, ma’am” (trying, not so successfully, to sound like Clint Eastwood or perhaps John Wayne. He wasn't so sure of which) and then with a rapid shift of expression,
“ The trick is to make it warm and cozy inside and go out as little as possible, and when you go out, you do it with friends.”
“Is thi s how you entertain your wife at breakfast?” she said and then blushed as it might be understood as a pass, comparing their sitting there with his matrimonial situation.
“Uh ,” he said, “our breakfast ritual is quite different. It goes like this. I wake up, I put on the coffee and set the table with the most popular items. Then I try to find my wife. She is normally either out on a quick walk or if the weather is really, and I mean really, bad she works out with a torture machine in the basement. I tell her the coffee is ready, and she looks at me like I am her servant and says, ‘I hope it is good.’ ‘Of course it is good, milady,’ I respond. Then we sit and have breakfast together. It’s actually the only time of the day when we are almost always together. Lunches we take at work, dinners we often skip or eat out, each one of us alone or with some colleagues. We both work a lot, I must say. Too much, frankly. During weekends we spend more serious time together. That means that we take the fifteen minutes of breakfast together as a time to discuss things like managing our life, who will fix that, buy food, clean up, do the laundry, etc., etc. It is basically a business meeting, sometimes including stiff negotiations, but mostly just plain organization. Not a lot of entertainment there, not a lot of fun,” his voiced trailed off and he looked down with a bothered expression.
She sat quiet.
“And you, how is your breakfast?”
“Oh, breakfast is quite serious for me. Once I get going with my work, I easily forget to eat, so I force myself to take heavy breakfast, inspired by the traditions where I live, in total opposition to my upbringing, which didn’t really include breakfast. I make an omelet, with something seasonal such as mushrooms, tomatoes, parsley or carrots, fry some potatoes, eat sausages and goat’s cheese. I drink milk, goat’s milk, and I drink herbal tea. Rarely coffee in the morning. I save the coffee for the day, where it keeps me going all through to supper.”
“One would not believe that a thin perso n like you could have such a heavy breakfast,” he said. It
She burst out laughing, not so much for what he said but how h e said it and the speed at which he spoke. “Enough, enough, I give up. I can’t eat breakfast and listen to this mesmerizing account of the beauty of this world.”
He folded the newspaper and looked her sternly into the eyes: “ There is a nasty world out there, ma’am” (trying, not so successfully, to sound like Clint Eastwood or perhaps John Wayne. He wasn't so sure of which) and then with a rapid shift of expression,
“ The trick is to make it warm and cozy inside and go out as little as possible, and when you go out, you do it with friends.”
“Is thi s how you entertain your wife at breakfast?” she said and then blushed as it might be understood as a pass, comparing their sitting there with his matrimonial situation.
“Uh ,” he said, “our breakfast ritual is quite different. It goes like this. I wake up, I put on the coffee and set the table with the most popular items. Then I try to find my wife. She is normally either out on a quick walk or if the weather is really, and I mean really, bad she works out with a torture machine in the basement. I tell her the coffee is ready, and she looks at me like I am her servant and says, ‘I hope it is good.’ ‘Of course it is good, milady,’ I respond. Then we sit and have breakfast together. It’s actually the only time of the day when we are almost always together. Lunches we take at work, dinners we often skip or eat out, each one of us alone or with some colleagues. We both work a lot, I must say. Too much, frankly. During weekends we spend more serious time together. That means that we take the fifteen minutes of breakfast together as a time to discuss things like managing our life, who will fix that, buy food, clean up, do the laundry, etc., etc. It is basically a business meeting, sometimes including stiff negotiations, but mostly just plain organization. Not a lot of entertainment there, not a lot of fun,” his voiced trailed off and he looked down with a bothered expression.
She sat quiet.
“And you, how is your breakfast?”
“Oh, breakfast is quite serious for me. Once I get going with my work, I easily forget to eat, so I force myself to take heavy breakfast, inspired by the traditions where I live, in total opposition to my upbringing, which didn’t really include breakfast. I make an omelet, with something seasonal such as mushrooms, tomatoes, parsley or carrots, fry some potatoes, eat sausages and goat’s cheese. I drink milk, goat’s milk, and I drink herbal tea. Rarely coffee in the morning. I save the coffee for the day, where it keeps me going all through to supper.”
“One would not believe that a thin perso n like you could have such a heavy breakfast,” he said. It
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