Beryl had hardly quarreled in fourteen years of marriage. When she does, she spews with such ferocity the Reverend hopes she'd learn to dole her venom in even, less thick doses. But then, he'd be too comfortable and that would be not much of a fight.

This time, she is stirred and ready. As the fight heats up, the Reverend prays she'd just shut up and be elegant. She is so excellent when she is elegant. But that is not to be. In fourteen years Basil has not learned to coax elegance into her for she exudes it quite easily on her own. Each hiss, rattle, and strike finds its mark repeatedly till the he is stunned, first into silence, then into awkward stupidity.

Rachel, their daughter, stumbles in from play to find herself bombarded by the fury of her mother's rage. Without a blink she races to her corner room, stuffs earphones in her ears, and blasts her brains numb with Spice Girls. Gad! Give me peace!

The Reverend, still confused as to why his wife, a complex woman revered for her charm and superb intellect, has degraded into shallow flesh, still stands stupefied. Bruised.

The fight is just too much for him to take. Mentally, ripped to shreds and bloodied, he walks away, slams the door and heads for his Lexus as Beryl screams his name: REVEREND! Her plan is going awry. Surely, this is not the way King Solomon outlined it ... at least not by her estimation. And she is not about to give up. As far as Beryl is concerned, there is only one life pomised on earth. This is it!

I waft a breath of breeze to cool her from fainting as her sweat mingles with her tears. And now that I see the sting of human frailty, I wonder, even if I interfere, whether the earnesty of my care has matching balm for the intensity of her determination. Yet, though I see the road ahead, I cannot help but wonder what best to soothe her with this moment. Do you know? Or should I waft another breath of cool breeze?