TROUBL

Sun was out. But, it was one of those days. She kept behind the clouds, peeking out every after while. A soft silver shade colored Sky, and it was drizzling a bit. The family congregated, for some reason beyond purpose, near the kitchen. Clock was on its first hour during Sunday’s early morning. And the door opened.
“Who’s winning?” said Maurice as he tripped into the living room. A basketball event went across the television screen, and Jacob was watching it in a worn burgundy chair. “I don’t know. I jus’ walked in.”
“Why you got t’ clown?”

Jacob attempted to disregard, then a subdued temper rattled him. Inside a whisper and pacing away, he said, “Not today.”

“There you go,” Grace was dressed in a robe as she hand-blended eggs at the nook’s table. Legs, crossed at her knees, dangled freely over space that just rose over the kitchen floor. With indoor slippers over her soles, she was appreciating her day off. She had her head and body against the far wall. A window cut in it. Its molded and tan blinds lay adjacent to Grace’s hair. She had come from her hair dresser the previous day, so the slight Sun caused her crown to shine.

“What?”
“Goin’ to that corner.”
“I been like this forever. Don’t ac’ surprised.”
“I know. I’m surprised ‘bout our marriage,” she said under breath.
A backpack lagged over Jason’s right shoulder. Hanging his head down on the floor’s carpet, a well-blemished tan, he walked pass the pentagonal coffee table near the door. Attempting to slide under notice, Jason’s steps stopped.
“Hey, who’s winnin’?” Maurice slapped Jason’s head.
“I don’t know.”
“Leave him alone,” Grace called from her space.
“Baby, I’m jus’ playin’.” Maurice walked over to her. He nearly tripped after his own feet. Deep brown and black, his shoes reassembled themselves and went safely through area between the living room centerpiece and the burgundy seat.
“Stop,” she said still stirring. Maurice continued to move, raiding his gray coat’s left-hand pocket, and hugged Grace when he reached for her. “Stop,” her voice carried through the proximal space, barely reaching back into the living room.
“Fo’ what? I ain’t doin’ nothin’ but comin’ home to my wife.”

Jason exited and left his parents to themselves.
Grace darted passively to the refrigerator’s top one-half. She opened it and witnessed enough food to withstand only a short season. “That’s corner talk.”
“See,” Maurice muttered.
“Well…” Grace moved to the stove, closing the refrigerator door in her free hand. Sitting iced-tea on the adjacent counter, she put hands over her head and stole a half inch deep pan from the cupboard.
“I love you.”
“As long as I do you favors,” she said towards tiny beads of cooking grease which were gathering heat in the pan.
“Calm down,” Maurice reached for her behind.
“Move.”
The pan knocked to the floor. Grace fell and grease began to slide alongside the stove front, meeting her stance. With his hand against her cheek and her face almost kissing the lit burner, “I say what goes,” Maurice whispered while kissing her ear.
“Okay,” Grace gathered herself and rushed to their bedroom. She came back. “Don’t know where you been,” she said with a condom placed within her teeth. Graced stripped to her bra, letting her robe go to the floor, and kneeled with knees on simmering cooking oil. The sound of an unhinging zipper filled the kitchen.
Maurice leaned against the stove surface, moving the first eye to off. While he relaxed his head, the pan swung into his sturdy mid-section. Unable to save his standing, he bent over his groin and sour early meal. A dark and moist spot stretched across his pants. He tried to erase. With slick hands, he attempted to raise himself but bumped ribs against the stove’s silver plated hand. Maurice wobbled to a chair, struggling, and gingerly lifted his figure.
“I own me,” Grace said in a low, sure tone. She rewrapped her robe about her body and carried herself into the bathroom.