Hiram Phillips finished tying his bow tie and glanced in the mirror. Frowning, he tugged on the left side, then caught sight of his watch in the mirror. Time to get going. Moments later, he was down the stairs, whistling cheerfully and heading toward the coffeemaker.
“You’re in a good mood,” his wife said, looking up from the newspaper and smiling. “What’s that tune? ‘Accentuate the Positive’?”
“Well done!” Hiram called out. “You know, I do believe you’re picking up some pop culture in spite of yourself.” It was a running joke with them. She was a classically trained cellist and on the board of the local symphony. He was the one with the Sinatra and Bing Crosby albums and the taste for standards. “You’re getting better at naming that tune.”
“Or else you’re getting better at whistling.” She looked over her reading glasses and met his eye. They let a beat pass before they said in unison: “Naaah.” Then, with a wink, Hiram shrugged on his trench coat, grabbed his travel mug, and went out the door.