Greta, the wife, left: “Is this what it’s come to, with this massive table representing the distance in our marriage?”
Felix, the servant, fiddling with who knows what, center, whispering: “Girl, don’t poke the bear. You know he has unregulated testosterone issues.”
Anders, husband, possible bear, right: “Whatever do you mean, my little nectarine?”
Greta: “I mean that you haven’t plucked my fruit for many months, and I’ve grown weary of the proffering without an appreciative harvest.”
Felix: “Oh God. Somebody’s going to throw something at some point. Why can’t these two just sublimate their issues like all the other people who can actually afford Art Deco furniture?”
Anders: “I suppose I could say that I don’t particularly relish sloppy seconds, but that would be too easy. Just like you.”
Greta: “Really, now? Are you implying that I’m the one who strayed? That’s rich. Everyone in the county knows about…
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