by E.P. Lande

“What d’you think you’ll do with Grandma’s inheritance?” Linda asked her sister. They were preparing dinner for guests that Celine’s husband Luke had invited, without thinking that it might be inappropriate considering his wife’s grandmother had recently died.

“I haven’t thought too much about it, frankly. Can you pass me the flour?” Celine told her.

“I might buy an apartment in Berlin,” Linda said, taking the china out of the cupboard.

“Why Berlin? The eggs are on the door of the ‘fridge; I need five.”

“It’s where it’s all happening, didn’t you know?” Linda told her, handing Celine the eggs. “It’s where Hans lives,” she added, in an undertone.

“Hans? Who’s Hans?” Celine asked, as she began beating the eggs. “He’s my latest.”

“Linda,” Celine stopped beating the eggs and looked at her sister, “don’t you think you should take a little time off? Last month it was Henri. The month before it was Gregor. Before Gregor it was Frederick. It’s like, every time we speak, we’re discussing the United Nations. Have you ever thought of dating a nice American boy?” Adding the flour and a teaspoon of vanilla, Celine began beating the mixture a second time.

“Nice American boys—as you call them—are boring.”

“Are you implying that Luke is boring, because if you are, you’re right, but he’s good in bed, and you know that that’s important. Is the chocolate melted?”

“I like variety.”

“You’re like Dad.”

“Except, he marries them,” Linda told her sister.