Bill Howe, pressed and polished for work, sipped his morning coffee. His stocks had done well the day before this. The Sixers basketball team lost to the Trailblazers.
Suddenly, his front door opened and shut. A minute later, a disheveled Ben appeared in the kitchen door. His lopsided grin spoke of the evening's activities.
Bill went back to his paper and coffee, not in any mood for a fight. His life, one he'd built up painstakingly from the gutter, seemed to be teetering.
“No comment, big bro?" Ben said pouring himself coffee from the glass coffee pot. He sipped. He grimaced. “Fairy coffee again."
Bill didn't rise to the bait. He was in no mood. “Better than the dregs you drink." Coffee, or Ben's lack of taste, was a neutral subject. Safe. No new argument required.
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