by Stephen V. Ramey
“Idiot,” she mutters under her breath. I pretend not to hear.
“Butter?” I pass the rectangular ceramic tray bearing that golden log. It’s actually an I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter stick, but we like to pretend.
“Do I look like I want butter?” she says. Her eyebrows arch like millipedes recoiling. I set the not-butter down.
“Apologies, Dear.” A platter of pancakes graces the center of our breakfast table. Blueberry, I believe. Or chocolate chip. The Continue reading