"Maybe It’s Time for a Change" by Mark Ifanson
“Bebby slams into Florida.”
“What?”
“Bebby slams into Florida.”
Clara stared at Phil, hunched over his laptop, talking with his mouth full, getting muffin crumbs on his keyboard and all over the kitchen table. He didn’t seem to care. She did.
She was eating wheat toast, with just a little strawberry jam, much healthier than that muffin. And she kept all her crumbs on her plate. Almost. Any that fell on the table were quickly whisked away. As civilized people know to do.
And, just what was he babbling on about? “Who’s ‘Bebby’?”
“Huh”?
“Bebby. Who, or what, is Bebby?”
“It’s Debby, not Bebby, Clara. According to the Daily Mail, she’s slamming into Florida.”
“What the hell does that even mean, Phil? And why are you reading that trash paper?”
“Debby’s a hurricane. And she’s slamming into Florida.” Phil absentmindedly picked his nose, inspected the result, and smeared it on his napkin.
“Shit, Phil, that’s so gross. Stop picking your nose at the table.”
“Huh?”
“Your nose. Stop picking your nose at the table. Save that for when you’re driving, then at least I won’t have to watch you do it.”
Shaking her head, Clara got up from the kitchen table and went to the fridge to get more milk for her coffee. Phil, still immersed in the Daily Mail’s latest coverage of extreme American weather, didn’t notice.
Opening the fridge door, Clara was happy to see Bill was still sitting where she last saw him, legs dangling over the shelf above the crisper drawer. “Hi, Bill. Could you hand me that milk carton on the door?”
“Hi Clara, great to see you again.” Bill smiled as he handed the milk to Clara. “I didn’t mean to be eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help overhearing your convo with Phil. You know, the offer’s still open. You can join us at any time. There’s only thirty of us in here now; I’m sure there’s room for one more.”
Clara returned Bill’s smile. She loved how his large, slightly yellowed teeth, black button nose, and squinting eyes combined into the happiest smile she had ever seen.
She’d been giving Bill’s offer a lot of thought lately. He made it sound so appealing, living with thirty miniature polar bears in a near-perfect climate-controlled environment. They all seemed so friendly. And smart. Certainly better conversationalists than Phil.
But no, not yet. Maybe after breakfast.
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