I'd grown to hate that sound, and the predictable manner with which he cleared his throat. I could anticipate it now; the short inhale, followed by a violent cajole of real or imagined phlegm. The self righteous side of me doubted his biological need to heft that throaty cough. No one has to clear their throat that often. Perhaps over the years it simply became a subconscious habit for him. Either way, his phleming habit was a great distraction to me. A rock, dropping in the still waters of my morning.
He slurped at his coffee with a sound that irritated me perhaps even more than the throat clearing. A slurp is not a sip.
Never looking up, he cloaked himself with anonymity behind the daily newspaper. Using the sound of the gray pages crushing under his thoughtless hands as his cue to clear his throat. Again.
I was invisible as I silently moved about the kitchen like a Breakfast Ninja. I didn't mind. I preferred him not to notice me. The cacophony of sound rising up from behind the newspaper made it impossible not to notice him.
"Good morning, Asshole." The Ninja serves imaginary conversations with her cereal, which she takes upstairs to her room to enjoy beside still waters.
