Ruthann Delaney was a real lady, genteel like Billie Jean Green of Liberty Hill. Hat and gloves and hose, de rigueur even on the hottest of summer days, were a part of Miss Delaney's everyday wardrobe. But unlike the other women of town, who loved their tea, this unique one of the fairer sex preferred coffee. This morning in particular she wanted her coffee to be like friendship: rich, warm, strong. Very strong.
Having made her way safely down the staircase, she shuffled through some newspapers and made a turn toward the kitchen. The light coming in from the east shone through the kitchen windows, making its bold declaration that day had unequivocally begun. This robust light show brought Ruthann to the cusp of wakefulness as she headed toward the sink and reached for the tap. Fingers of her right hand in a grasp upon the cold water faucet handle, Ruthann pulled on it. Gasp of air. Silence. No water.
Well, she would call Mr. Chauncey, the plumber, later. The granite percolator will have to be filled in the laundry room sink. After a cursory look out the dirty window above the sink (she knew for a fact that she had already washed it), Ruthann turned away from the sink and went to the range. The coffee pot was not there. It was always there. Not this morning, that much was certain. My, the chrome on the O'Keefe and Merritt has lost its luster. And so soon already! Make a note to polish it later. She opened the cupboard door above the stove to see if she might have stuck the pot there. A creature of habit who believed like a creed "a place for everything and everything in its place," this was hardly likely. Nevertheless, not only was it not there but neither was anything else. She had only recently emptied all the cupboards, scoured them, relined and restocked them.
So she thought ...
