“No, read me that poem again,
the one he wrote after his children died.”
Staring at Trudy, Henry smiled, one of those closed-mouthed, eyes scrunched, self-conscious grins he’d developed to acknowledge when someone had successfully called his bluff.
"Yes, I suppose you’re right…” the bluster gone and his voice suddenly transformed into a mea culpa squeak as he grabbed two slices of bread out of its protective plastic wrap, “a body needs to eat. Thanks for reminding me.”
Placing the two slices of bread in the available slots, Henry pushed the handle down and Trudy’s heating coils turned cherry red.