Odd Jobs
by Matthew S. Rotundo
As he stood at the kitchen stove, stirring the spaghetti and keeping an eye on the simmering marinara sauce, Steve Jacobs finally admitted to himself that he was in over his head. He couldn’t hide the disturbances-if that was the right word-any longer.
Ginny stood behind him, still dressed for work in a red business suit, her dark hair swept up, her arms crossed, her eyebrows raised. "All right, talk. What’s going on?"
He had no idea how to respond. He was caught.
Alvin, their tan and white tomcat, strode into the kitchen and began twining between Steve’s legs, expecting to be fed. Steve shooed the cat away. "What do you mean?"
"I think you know what I mean."
"No, I-"
"I’m talking about this. Look, Steve."
He turned from the stove, shoulders slumped.
Ginny stood next to the dinner table, on which lay the day’s newspaper, still rolled and rubber-banded. She had brought in the paper when she arrived home, then had turned on the ceiling fan to relieve some of the kitchen’s late afternoon stuffiness. And she had noticed.
The ceiling fan had rattled since they’d bought the house five years ago. At the lowest setting, the noise was barely tolerable. At higher speeds, the racket was audible even from the upstairs bedroom.
