Mrs. Gibson turned from the kitchen in the rental apartment to face Cherry and Mr. Gibson. “Anthony, baby, what do you think? Isn’t the kitchen a bit too small? How will we entertain in there?” She flipped her finger over her shoulder, pointing to the miniscule cooking space. Mr. Anthony Gibson leaned closer to Cherry, dropped his voice, and asked, “The bar?” “There’s two, one a block to the north and another just around the corner. Want to split up and check them out?” Right about then if she made a personal inspection of either establishment, she’d sample every bottle they had behind the counter and never report back her findings. One of the Realtors had foisted these two off on her three days ago when he couldn’t find them the “perfect love nest” to buy. Three long days of listening to honey, baby, pookey, snooky-bear, sugarlips . . . the list went on. She was about to go into insulin shock. “Sweetie, this will do for now,” Gibson told his wife. The woman stared at her husband as if he had three heads and a tail.
