You could feel it for days, something buoyant and heady in the air. The daisies were dizzy, beaming with a new electricity. Wherever you turned, there was an underlying thrum, something novel and neon wrestling at the staid gray seams of the home. Your husband has been uneasy since your artist friend from the city came and went. She left two days early, even before she finished her painting of the new blossoms in the backyard, leaving the easel awry on the hillside. This morning, Rafaello ate his eggs in silence, yolks spilling sunrise like the centre buttons of the marguerites. He lit your cigarette, then stepped outside for air. You waited for him as your coffee cooled, and finally exhaled as your mind grasped the obvious and unspoken. There are three at the table set for two.