Cyril
When we arrived at the kitchen, Susan was expecting to be served, but I showed her the empty dish set.
“Oh my. I can't believe I forgot that it's all finished.” I turned to Susan. “I gave it all to daddy. Now we have to make our own food.”
I cracked an egg against the side of a copper bowl, the sound was sharp and final.
Susan made coffee and was humming, a light, airy tune while at it, her tune grated against my nerves like sandpaper on silk.
She seemed entirely too comfortable in my kitchen, moving with a proprietary ease that made my fingers itch to wrap around the handle of the paring knife.
"So, Susan," I began, my voice smooth and inquisitive.
I whisked the eggs with a rhythmic, hypnotic clatter. "Tell me Susan, you and my dad, where did you two actually meet? What
