The Utopia of Greed

           "Goodmorning."

           Shelookedathimacrossthelivingroomfromthethresholdofherdoor.Inthewindowsbehindhim,themountainshadthattingeofsilver-pinkwhichseemsbrighterthandaylight,withthepromiseofalighttocome.Thesunhadrisensomewhereovertheearth,butithadnotreachedthetopofthebarrier,andtheskywasglowinginitsstead,announcingitsmotion.Shehadheardthejoyousgreetingtothesunrise,whichwasnotthesongofbirds,buttheringingofthetelephoneamomentago;shesawthestartofday,notintheshininggreenofthebranchesoutside,butintheglitterofchromiumonthestove,thesparkleofaglassashtrayonatable,andthecrispwhitenessofhisshirtsleeves.Irresistibly,sheheardthesoundofasmileinherownvoice,matchinghis,assheanswered:"Goodmorning."

           Hewasgatheringnotesofpenciledcalculationsfromhisdeskandstuffingthemintohispocket."Ihavetogodowntothepowerhouse,"hesaid."They’vejustphonedmethatthey’rehavingtroublewiththerayscreen.Yourplaneseemstohaveknockeditoffkey.I’llbebackinhalfanhourandthenI’llcookourbreakfast."

           Itwasthecasualsimplicityofhisvoice,themanneroftakingherpresenceandtheirdomesticroutineforgranted,asifitwereofnosignificancetothem,thatgaveherthesenseofanunderscoredsignificanceandthefeelingthatheknewit.