“Yes,” he replied, and sat down, fork in hand.
She watched him as he mixed up the contents of the bowl, reducing the gold of the honey and raisins and the ruby-red of the strawberries into brown-white goo. As his fork paused to pick a bite and lift it to his mouth, Ira saw the goo rising by itself, like an exploding mudslide, splattering his face, blinding him.
“Come back early today, honey,” she dropped a kiss on her husband’s head as he struggled through his breakfast. “I have a feeling things will work tonight.”