With the piercing shriek of the teapot now quite unbearable, Marge Peterson got up from the table and went into the kitchen. Because of her size (large) and the peculiar way in which her liver-splotched skin folded in on itself on her upper arms, she reminded Arthur somewhat of an Apatosaurus. He watched nervously as she fussed with the arrangement of cups and saucers in the cabinet until she emerged with an almost-matching set. “Sugar, dear?” she asked him as she scooped two large lumps of the stuff into each cup. “None for me, thanks,” he replied.
How good of her to have him over on such short notice! After the truth about Laurel had come out, his relationship with his family had suffered considerably; Arthur had nowhere else to turn. But had she heard about what happened? He was worried lest her opinion on the matter be the same as those he had already received.
Marge placed the tray on the tea caddy beside the table and sat down again. The table was too small for two – his knees pressed uncomfortably against the middles of her fleshy shins. He wondered if this sensation had bothered Stephen while he was still alive. He sipped at his tea, and set it down quickly when it scalded his tongue.
“Fine weather, today,” she started. “Yes,” he said. He watched as she stared at him in silence. Arthur was confused. Perhaps she had not heard after all? He certainly did not want to be the one to tell her. And yet he felt that she was the only one who might be able to recommend the proper course of action going forward. There was no other way: he must speak his mind. Breathing in deeply, he looked her directly in the eye and said:
“Thank you for the tea.”
(Title as starting place for a story)
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