She left the empty bottle on the
counter, and opened the refrigerator again and searched its open
shelves for breakfast. She took a plastic container and opened
it. Inside were two slices of veal left over from last night's
meal. She ate one of the slices. The sauce was congealed and
hardened, but the meat tasted good, and she licked the oily shine
from her fingers. Her mood was returning to normal.
Greta exited the kitchen and stretched out on the couch in the
sitting room. Her hand found the remote control between the
cushions and she pointed the thing at the television and pressed
its buttons, sipping her drink as the screen flipped through
channels. Her mind flipped through its own channels, still
contemplating what to do with her day.
She stopped on a commercial showing a young, laughing couple
running along a beach hand in hand. It was interspersed with
quick, one-second images of cocktails, dancing, dining. It
concluded with the pair on horseback, galloping down the beach
into the sunset, leaving her with the message: "Live again!"
She tucked the device between the pillows and set her empty glass
on the coffee table; she had resolved today's activity dilemma.
In the bedroom she tossed her robe onto the bed. Hesitating, she
considered showering. She decided against it; she'd only get
dirty again in an hour or so.
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