She would wonder where the hell he was. And she would pace, then stop and cross her arms. And the help would say “Excuse me, Ma’am,” and walk around her. And for his seven minutes of tranquility he would pay.
And when he arrived, sat, she would decide whether to command her eyes to bore through him or punish him with silence.
And he would chew very slowly, never faster than the tick of the mantle clock, as calm as its pendulum. And his eyes would go there to appreciate the perfection of the timepiece. And he would mix his peas with his mashed potatoes and smile, and they would become one.