thomas and samantha lived for many years in the house left to them by their parents, attended by a painfully small number of servants.
they were both creatures of routine.
every morning samantha would come down to breakfast before thomas, and when thomas finally arrived, she would say to him,
“good morning, thomas. if you have nothing to say, please do not say anything.”
and thomas would nod, pick up his coffee cup and his copy of the times, and say nothing.
then one day, shortly after a war had ended, samantha made her usual statement, and themes responded,
“yes, i have something to say.”
“oh? and what is it that you have to say, thomas?”
“that you would look nicer if you smiled.”
“really? well, thank you so much for that astute observation.”
and they both resumed their breakfast.
thomas never again broke his silence at the table.
after a number of years samantha died of pneumonia during a bitter winter, and thomas followed her in the spring, of a heart attack which he had never attempted to forestall through healthy living.
they were both buried in the garden they had loved so well, though thomas had perhaps loved it a bit more than samantha.
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