Read Online Friday Mornings at Nine by Marilyn Brant - Free Book Online
Authors: Marilyn Brant
Tags: Fiction, Contemporary Women
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suggest some tasty Armani—so he stays away from cords.”
He chuckled. “I will.”
And as Aaron strode back toward his house, she stared after him. No longer thinking about his sweaty shirt or even his cut physique. Her only prevailing thought, which spooled like a never-ending mental loop through her addled brain, was, What could’ve induced any woman to divorce him?
He was, in Tamara’s not-so-humble opinion, a man without fault.
4
Jennifer
Thursday, September 9
“T he dish towel caught on fire,” Jennifer’s husband, Michael, informed her as he dropped the singed green terrycloth into the sink and turned on the faucet.
She watched steam rise from the stainless-steel basin and counted the seconds until the fire alarm would likely go off. Five, four, three, two—
The blaring noise assaulted her ears. Jennifer eyed the alarm. Couldn’t be too much power left in that battery after all the use it’d been getting lately. Good thing daylight savings time was coming to an end soon. She needed an excuse to make Michael change the 9-volt.
The latest problem, of course, was the toaster oven; the dish towel was merely an innocent bystander. Something invariably went wrong daily between 6:10 A.M ., when Michael stepped out of his hot shower, and 7:20 A.M ., when he grabbed his briefcase filled with student quizzes, his ¿Habla Español? teacher’s guide and the keys to his Toyota before heading off to work.
How did she know this? Well, because yesterday’s problem had been the hair dryer.
And the day before it had been the rechargeable shaver.
And one memorable morning last week it’d been the microwavable omelet maker.
She and Michael had had a month of appliance malfunctions with which to mark the deterioration of morning conversation from “Hi, honey, how’d you sleep?” to “Quick, grab the fire extinguisher!”
If she didn’t know better, she’d think Michael was set on destroying the house one electrical device at a time, simply to get out of asking her how she was doing, what she was thinking or why she was spending so many hours glued to her computer screen.
Thus far, his strategy had proven effective.
“I’ll turn off the alarm,” she said.
“Great, thanks,” Michael called to her as she opened up a kitchen window, then fanned the smoke alarm with last month’s issue of At Home with Bits-n-Bytes magazine until it stopped its high-pitched alert. “I can buy some new dish towels this weekend,” he added.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said evenly. Michael was not exactly Mr. Bed, Bath & Beyond. He’d be more likely to get distracted at the strip mall, wind up at a Starbucks and write an “Elegy to the Earth” on one of their paper napkins about how “the scorched jade of the cloth was like seared bamboo shoots; foliage burnt by human avarice and neglect….”
Which was precisely why she handled all the practical matters in their household.
The girls came trudging down the stairs. Shelby, “almost thirteen,” as she liked to say, sniffing and wrinkling her freckled nose as she walked. “What’s burning now?”
“Nothing, sweetheart,” Michael told her reassuringly. “The edge of the towel just got caught in the toaster oven. But, hey, I made you girls some cinnamon toast. Want a slice?”
“We’re women, Dad,” Veronica, Resident Freshman, said with a tone that would have been ironic had she not sounded so pleased with herself.
Michael, having been admonished by his nearly fifteen-year-old daughter to refer to her as a “lady” or a “woman” and not a “girl” (ever since the advent of her period some three years ago), had been more successful than not in “avoiding the perpetuation of sexist stereotypes within their home.” However, sometimes Jennifer just wished he would go a little alpha male on her. Be a fix-it man for a change.
“Sorry, sorry, ladies, ” he said with a good-natured laugh. He picked up a plate stacked with cinnamon toast and
He chuckled. “I will.”
And as Aaron strode back toward his house, she stared after him. No longer thinking about his sweaty shirt or even his cut physique. Her only prevailing thought, which spooled like a never-ending mental loop through her addled brain, was, What could’ve induced any woman to divorce him?
He was, in Tamara’s not-so-humble opinion, a man without fault.
4
Jennifer
Thursday, September 9
“T he dish towel caught on fire,” Jennifer’s husband, Michael, informed her as he dropped the singed green terrycloth into the sink and turned on the faucet.
She watched steam rise from the stainless-steel basin and counted the seconds until the fire alarm would likely go off. Five, four, three, two—
The blaring noise assaulted her ears. Jennifer eyed the alarm. Couldn’t be too much power left in that battery after all the use it’d been getting lately. Good thing daylight savings time was coming to an end soon. She needed an excuse to make Michael change the 9-volt.
The latest problem, of course, was the toaster oven; the dish towel was merely an innocent bystander. Something invariably went wrong daily between 6:10 A.M ., when Michael stepped out of his hot shower, and 7:20 A.M ., when he grabbed his briefcase filled with student quizzes, his ¿Habla Español? teacher’s guide and the keys to his Toyota before heading off to work.
How did she know this? Well, because yesterday’s problem had been the hair dryer.
And the day before it had been the rechargeable shaver.
And one memorable morning last week it’d been the microwavable omelet maker.
She and Michael had had a month of appliance malfunctions with which to mark the deterioration of morning conversation from “Hi, honey, how’d you sleep?” to “Quick, grab the fire extinguisher!”
If she didn’t know better, she’d think Michael was set on destroying the house one electrical device at a time, simply to get out of asking her how she was doing, what she was thinking or why she was spending so many hours glued to her computer screen.
Thus far, his strategy had proven effective.
“I’ll turn off the alarm,” she said.
“Great, thanks,” Michael called to her as she opened up a kitchen window, then fanned the smoke alarm with last month’s issue of At Home with Bits-n-Bytes magazine until it stopped its high-pitched alert. “I can buy some new dish towels this weekend,” he added.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said evenly. Michael was not exactly Mr. Bed, Bath & Beyond. He’d be more likely to get distracted at the strip mall, wind up at a Starbucks and write an “Elegy to the Earth” on one of their paper napkins about how “the scorched jade of the cloth was like seared bamboo shoots; foliage burnt by human avarice and neglect….”
Which was precisely why she handled all the practical matters in their household.
The girls came trudging down the stairs. Shelby, “almost thirteen,” as she liked to say, sniffing and wrinkling her freckled nose as she walked. “What’s burning now?”
“Nothing, sweetheart,” Michael told her reassuringly. “The edge of the towel just got caught in the toaster oven. But, hey, I made you girls some cinnamon toast. Want a slice?”
“We’re women, Dad,” Veronica, Resident Freshman, said with a tone that would have been ironic had she not sounded so pleased with herself.
Michael, having been admonished by his nearly fifteen-year-old daughter to refer to her as a “lady” or a “woman” and not a “girl” (ever since the advent of her period some three years ago), had been more successful than not in “avoiding the perpetuation of sexist stereotypes within their home.” However, sometimes Jennifer just wished he would go a little alpha male on her. Be a fix-it man for a change.
“Sorry, sorry, ladies, ” he said with a good-natured laugh. He picked up a plate stacked with cinnamon toast and
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