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Bricolage

Roy came in from the yard, brushing crumbs of earth off his clothes. He poured himself coffee, pulled out a chair and slumped wearily. Tapping the chequered tablecloth with soil-stained fingers, he eyed the ragged hole in the bottom of the kitchen door, the edges still damp with saliva.

Miriam, seemingly unperturbed, continued to dissect her grapefruit in characteristically meticulous fashion. She paused momentarily, segment on spoon, to gave him one of her looks.

“I know, I know!” He slammed a fist on the table.

“Sweetie…” she began, reproachfully.

“At least,” Roy cut in, “the McElroy’s dog is no longer a problem. You ought to be pleased, dammit.” He thumbed his spectacles back up his nose and squinted at her peevishly.

“Honey, I am pleased that you have a hobby. But sometimes I think you take it a little far. " She wiped her mouth daintily on her napkin. “I mean, that thing actually had a face.”

“I was hoping that you hadn’t seen that.”

Rising to clear the dishes, she squeezed his shoulder gently.

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