Fifteen Minutes

"Kean, you're pompous."

He was brushing his hair while sitting on the couch watching the evening news from January 27.

"Why are you watching that? It's old news, what, seven or eight months old by now."

"I had to cut back on my television time this year. Fifteen minutes, a New Year's Resolution. The worst is when I have to stop in the middle of a segment."

"This is worse than the four hours per day you watched last year."

A chime signaled time was up. Kean stopped the stream, stood, clipped his brush into a belt holster, and went to the kitchen.

"Are you pouring me a drink, you lush?"

"Why is it that you have to talk to me like that?"

"Why is it that you dare to talk to me, like that?"

He poured a bourbon, then another. He slid the decanter to the back of the shelf, paused, pulled it out again and made his a double.

"You're a pretty bird," he said.

"Yes, you are." She smiled.