The kettle was whistling to notify anyone interested that it had completed its task. The water had boiled.
"Mom! The water is boiling! What should I do?"
The eight-year-old child was shouting from the kitchen while she was putting on her lipstick. The cry left her indifferent. After all, this happened every day and, according to her watch, at about the same time. Her husband was tightening his tie. The room was filled with his cologne.
"We're late again!" he said, combing his hair, which, despite his forty years, was jet black.
Her own hair, however, had not been so lucky. The hairdresser regularly corrected nature's haste. The treacherous white hairs of her thirty-five years disappeared in the pleasant environment.
In the kitchen, she prepared the little girl's milk, which she drank in one breath as every morning. The sandwich was in its place. The school bus honked. Another identical day was beginning. Wearing her customary smile, she waved at the school bus as it drove away.