The Ranklers

By Susan Gale Wickes

He sat at the kitchen table, waiting for his toast. She shuffled from the refrigerator to the counter to the table. How he hated the sound those slippers made.

She padded around the familiar kitchen, but her thoughts were far away.

He was young and handsome. She was wild and free. He didn’t care if his toast was lightly buttered or slathered with jam. She didn’t check the thermostat to make sure it was set at precisely 67 degrees.

She sighed.

“What’s wrong now?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she smiled, deliberately rubbing her slippers back and forth on the worn wooden floor.