Ore
A generally reliable woman was pestering the seed—or is it called a pit?—that she had noticed was blotchy. The reliable woman at work in her kitchen observed privately to herself, for no reason she knew of, that the pit had been discolored by avocado-colored markings. The woman was using her fingers to wrench the pit out from the center of the ripe fruit. The pit was not coming along willingly.
No, this is not about childbirth.
The surprise is that anyone as reliable as she is had not had plenty of experience wrenching pits.
The pear’s pit—this is an avocado pear pit—was not of a like mind to hers—like, What is the matter with you, pit?
What is the matter with her very reliable husband, who could not extract this woman, his wife, from their home?
The wife had been making her husband miserable for years, being the unbudgeable type.
I’d say time for a change.
In their secret life, the husband and the wife then sought the usual marital excavations—their aim being to meet their troubles with equanimity.
For starters, they agreed. They agreed how excellent their sexual satisfactions together were, how much more reliably attainable these satisfactions were, more now than had ever been the case before, now that every other aspect of their life together, they admitted, was so unsatisfactory in such extreme.
No, no, no, no, no!
This discussion never occurred. The husband and the wife no longer had the means to conduct such a high-level discussion.
These people are annoying. You know how annoying? To me, as annoying as it was to see for myself last night at twilight one bright sparkling spot in the sky that did not move. It did not get bigger, or brighter, or smaller, or dimmer, and for all intents and purposes, it is stuck there.
As I am.