'I would like everyone here to know that I am very angry. Not just angry, fed up. You don't have any right to treat me like this!' she cried howling as she began to bawl. 'You don't, you don't, ahahahah' she cried louder. For a moment there was a hush as her outbreak began, in her head I should say anyway, (for in actuality her fits were common day enough that her family went on merrily as though a bird were chirping in the center of the room,) so in her head there was this silence...and she felt herself slightly redeemed. For, she reasoned, if she could force them to be quiet for a minute, that meant they must care, right?
Her large blue velvety dress was meant to be billowy but instead hung snuggly over her rotund, apple shaped figure. The skirt ran down to her ankles, which were fashioned with real gold bracelets. Like a bird, she wanted to put out her best feathers when she dressed. Her son, when he wanted to complain about his overbearing, loud, mother, always returned to her ankle bracelets. What sort of 49 year old woman couldn't leave the home without ankle bracelets jingling?
Her husband gave himself a moment of rest before he abandoned his genial conversation and made his way over to her. She stood in the center of the room, her wavy red hair pointing in all directions.
'There there, dearest, everyone agrees with you. You are right. Your pumpkin pie is inconceivably better than Mrs. Portley's,' he said placating her.
'Oh gosh, no you are just saying that' she said as a fresh hot spray darted down her cheeks.
'No dearest, no, yours is delicious. Hers...hers tastes like she adds chalk to it or, even worse' and here his voice crept lower and he began to whisper, 'even worse, like she uses low-fat milk.'
His wife took a sharp inward breathe. The thought was nauseating!
'Really, you mean it?' she asked softly, all too ready to be feel merry now that her tears were out.
'Yes, dear...low fat!'
She sighed, wiped her eyes, and went to have another slice.
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