She struggled to burrow back into sleep.
"I'm starving, kid. I can't sleep."
She bleared at the timespot. It was three a.m. "Go 'way."
"Aw, gimme an omelette." Brendel ate a lot lately. His features were coarsening from it; his body was plumpening.
She argued and protested and whined, and he hit her. But it didn't make her feel good any more when he hit her.
Kitchen Central was inop for the night. She punched Storage. Dried ingredients materialized on the cookgrid, a flat metal sheet set into the countertop.
Later, as she took the omelette up, she heard Brendel setting the opera tapes. She scowled. But when opera shattered their live she dropped the skillet and cried, "Oh! Do we have to listen to that trash?" Her voice was more weary than shrill. The opera routine was getting old.
"What you calling trash?" He twitched his plump shoulders.
"It makes me sick!"
He spat profanity.