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​​Wrath and ire - what great, strong words, thought Charlotte, entering them as though stepping into and incarnating a dragon's very soul. Resentful indignation, on the other hand, felt filthy and small. 
She was musing about boundaries and how it was healthy to express wrath when someone trespassed but unhealthy to feel indignant when you allowed someone to trespass, unwillingly. Resentful indignation was something that could fester. "Fester" - she repeated the word with the pleasure of Krapp in Beckett's play, when he again and again uttered "spool".

It was Saturday morning ( "Good morning, morning" ) and she was puttering around the kitchen as she liked to do, looking out the window periodically to see a boat in the bay or a deer on the field, a big mug of her favourite organic coffee, the beans home ground, in hand.Two strangers, a mother and son she'd met on the ferry, were upstairs in the guestroom, the son playing with an electronic toy that emitted the egregious sound of gunfire. They'd had no place to spend the night so she'd ...

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