The kitchen was too large. It has always been too large. Compared to all her husband’s quirks and mannerisms, it was almost ironic that she had the hardest time getting accustomed to the large, almost industrial size, kitchen. She always felt small and incompetent in it, but her countless negotiations with her husband had been fruitless. He was too stubborn and set in his ways to concede to her demands.

What she had a hard time understanding was the reason he required such a monstrosity anyway? Until not too long ago, there were only the two of them living in this house. And even with that woman living with them, it was still much too big.

Her thoughts stirred up a seething hatred inside her. She didn’t need reminding of his recent reunification with his long lost daughter, or of the fact that she had taken camp in their house for the last two months.

What an unpleasant girl, the wife thought, as she opened the refrigerator and grabbed a cucumber.

She continued to make herself more and more upset by remembering every excruciating detail of her stepdaughter’s person, from her uneducated, working class crassness, her foul language, to even her appearance, always in disarray and seemingly unkempt. She recalled the time when she dared to ask the girl about her looks, more specifically the reason why she didn’t try to clean up her appearance. Especially now, since she was living with her father, a world renowned and internationally respected artist. The creature had scoffed at the idea, insisting it was a deliberate fashion choice. It was clear as day she had badly misunderstood the “debutante in disarray” look.

The wife huffed at the memory, her dislike for the daughter reaching the point where it transpired into physical discomfort. But she couldn’t get rid of the thoughts, almost relishing the torture on her nerves.

The more she thought, the more fierce her cutting and chopping. And the more animated she got, the more it fed her upset.

To top it all off, she caught a glimpse of his daughter walking briskly past the kitchen door, big and flamboyant sparkles briefly inundating the wife's eyes. That tacky bracelet again, she thought, throwing a handful of green olives into the salad bowl. Maybe it was from her already discomposed state of mind, but the bracelet seemed to sparkle even brighter and more annoyingly than usual.

“That’s it!” The wife burst out loud. “I must speak with him about this creature immediately.”

She roughly poured the olive oil over the salad, grabbed the bowl and hurried out of the kitchen.

She had a mind to give her husband an ultimatum: either he educated his daughter to integrate into their lifestyle, or she had to go. He could keep in touch with the creature wherever she might live, she didn’t need to disrupt their lives by invading their home as well.

When she reached the studio, the door was slightly ajar, and she could hear her husband talking with what she made out to be his best friend. She pushed the door open quietly, then changed her mind and gestured to the friend that she’ll return another time. They seemed to have an intense conversation, her husband visibly uncomfortable.

She smiled, coming down the steep stairs. Any interruption upon her husband made him flustered, uncomfortable. It was very amusing to her, the small pleasures she got out of his prolonged absences. If he was in the habit of locking himself in his studio, isolating not only himself, but her as well, she might as well enjoy his distress. It was an innocent pleasure, after all.