Brigid pulled herself slowly out into the living room; it was another rough morning, which was unfortunately not usual. Out in the kitchen, Greg was singing over his breakfast, which was also unfortunately not unusual. What Greg was singing, on the other hand, took a few seconds for Brigid to process.
He was singing in a lilty, wavering, ever-so-slightly flat falsetto, drawing out the high notes in a way that suggested a sensitive love song. That in itself was different from his usual playlist, but when combined with the lyrics, it set off a bomb in Brigid’s brain.
“She the kind of giiiiiiiirl,” Greg sang, “you don’t take home to moooother!”
“What?” said Brigid.
“The giiiirl’s all right, she’s all right with meeeeeeeeeeee!” Greg sang, as he stirred his eggs.
“Please tell me you aren’t…” said Brigid.
“She’s a suuuuuuper freak, a su-huper freeeee-heeeeak! She’s suuuuper freaky…” Greg sang, buttering his toast.
“You are,” said Brigid, unable to escape the cold truth. “You’re singing ‘Super Freak’ in the style of Cold Play.”
“She will neeee-heeever let your spirits dooooown, once you geeeet her off the streee-heeet,” Greg sang, and poured himself a cup of coffee.
“I’m not sure who should be more offended, Rick James or Chris Martin.”
He glanced over at her, raised one eyebrow, then dug out a fork and knife. “Blow Danny!” he added, and commenced to chow down.
Brigid pointed at the knife block on the counter. “There’s a perfectly serviceable set of weapons right there,” she said. “No jury would convict me.”
“There’s sausage and egg left for you on the stove,” Greg replied.
She stared at him for a long second, blinking painfully. “Fine,” she said. “You live this time.”
“I feel strangely like Scheherazade sometimes,” Greg said, and went back to his breakfast.