mittermeyer/reuenthal 'when something seems too good to be true...'
hey remember this classic post
If something seems too good to be true, quick! Â put it in your mouth! (before anything can go wrong!)
he ended up getting a somewhat wordy explanation, that eva had gone south to visit a cousin, not a mutual cousin except in law, who had just had a child, but he brought a bouquet in any case. “those will be dead by tomorrow evening,” mittermeyer said bleakly, “and eva will laugh at me.”
“your father should have been relieved when you told him you weren’t going into the family business,” said reuenthal, glancing at a wilting spider plant. he lay the roses beside it, in memoriam. “it was an act of mercy for yards across the empire.”
“last time he visited, he asked if i was as ruthless with the rebels as i am with my houseplants.” mittermeyer did not move from the stovetop, where he was scrambling eggs with ferocious efficiency, but remarked in a slightly faraway tone, “i feel like i understand better now why he was disappointed. when i have a son, i won’t want him to be a soldier.”
the when was unmissable. reuenthal kept drifting further from the kitchen, his eyes caught by the row of pictures on the mantle. “maybe an architect. or a banker,” mittermeyer continued. he’d turned around. a moment passed, between them and the photographs, in which reuenthal was quite certain the other man knew his impulse to turn them all on their faces. “i never use the fireplace,” he remarked, blandly and with infinite kindness. “it always seems so warm here.”
“i think you just run hot,” said reuenthal. “i’ve heard officers complain of freezing on the beowulf.”
the gale wolf, indomitable, brandished his spatula. “it keeps them awake,” he said, “and builds character.”
“keep an eye on the eggs,” reuenthal warned, making a leisurely way back to the kitchen table. “i can smell them getting dry.”
“i didn’t realize you were the expert,” mittermeyer said, though he pivoted to turn off the burner at once. “do you usually make breakfast for women who stay the night?”
that wasn’t daytime talk, not a question for bright, sober mornings. “what bachelor can’t scramble an egg?” he said before all the air could leave the room, and suppressed a wince at the clanking of plates.
“you should take some jam,” mittermeyer said, evidently having moved on, his generosity restored. “my mother makes too much every year and is always sending it to me.”
a jar sat at the table, he noticed, the lid trimmed with calico. “ah. a toast to your mother, then,” said reuenthal, and held his orange juice aloft.
