“The frame on the stroller is bent…

How the hell did you manage to do that!” He shouts from the front door, his voice carrying down the length of the hall to the occupied bedrooms. His breath steaming in the icy morning chill air. “Sweet cheese babe, the two swing arms that are supposed to move up and down are bent entirely outwards. It’s a steel plate you’ve bent, how? Just how? Why would you – why on earth, just what were you even trying to do?” The stream of consciousness is rambling out of the man in an irritated staccato. Followed intermittently by loud sighs and and gasps of suppressed rage. “You had to unfold it to use it, didn’t you look to see how the mechanism worked when you set it up?” With a sudden whoosh the front doors shut, and loud stomps across the front porch can be heard. His voice fades into muffled exclamations of indignant confusion. It is Friday morning. The sun is shining, though mostly obscured by wispy clouds on a brisk early morning breeze. Life moves on.