Kitchen — 1967
“William, is this really necessary?” Barbara watches the movers heft the thing up onto her counter and frowns, one arm over her chest and the other over her mouth. Damn, but William is like a child on Christmas: leaning too close to the movers, examining the little knobs. Of course, that was William. He finally hit on an idea that paid off, and he began to bleed money.
It started with moving in to this creepy old house — just because the neighbors were a certain kind of wealthy, a class of people who had been too good to hire Barbara to clean their homes. Now he was obsessed with filling it with things, silly and frivolous, to make life easy. She was getting smaller and smaller every day, with every new ‘freedom’ that William’s newly won fortune provided. She cleared her throat to pull herself out of that frame of thought. “It’s such an eye sore.”
He stepped back from the counter and wrapped an arm around her waist. “It’s the future, Barb! Look at it. In ten years no one will use an oven at all. Do you have any idea how much less time you’ll spend cooking?” He kissed her cheek and nuzzled her close, as though they were sixteen again. “You shouldn’t be on your feet so much, once you’re pregnant.”
Mutely, she nodded as the men handed some paperwork to William and left. The microwave, unfortunately, remained behind. Light reflected off the metallic surfaces — her reflection, distorted in the frame of the door. (more…)