“No,” Tessa snapped. “My chair. Move.”
Clare looked at me.
It was the particular silent communication spouses develop when they suddenly discover they have wandered into a cult ritual nobody explained to them.
“Tessa,” I said gently. “She’s carrying a human being and her sciatica is acting up. Sit on the sofa.”
Tessa stared at me as if I had asked her to drink from a stagnant puddle.
“I always sit there.”
“Well, today you are exploring new topographies,” I replied.
Tessa turned back toward my wife.
“Move.”
Clare didn’t raise her voice.
“I am comfortable. I will get up in ten minutes.”
That was when the shoe flew.
Fortunately, Tessa possessed the athletic coordination of a decorative fern.
The loafer missed Clare’s head by about a foot, struck a framed photograph of Ron, and landed in a crystal bowl of salted pretzels on the coffee table.
