Honey, strawberries, pumpkin seeds, raisins, and underneath that wheatgerm, flaxseed, oat bran, oats.
“What’s not to like?” asked Ira, eyeing her husband, hands on hips, “I added full-cream milk, too, it’s creamier. ”
“Nothing,” said her husband, his words as still as the way he slept, straight, like a corpse, unmoving all night, after they had gone at it for a bit, most nights, or had an argument, which was each night.
“So? Sit down and eat it then. You know you have to look after your heart, now that we’re planning a baby. All this is good for your heart.”
“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.”