Cereal Killer

screen again.
    Not foolish enough to make the same mistake twice in twenty-four hours, she decided to ignore the call of sisterly duty and sneak upstairs without asking Marietta the fatal question: “How are you?”
    But she had only taken two steps up the stairs when she heard a plaintive, “Is that you, Savannah?”
    The question was followed by a loud sniff that could only mean one thing—Marietta was still suffering from romantic woes.
    Oh, goody, she thought as she walked back down the stairs and into the living room.
    “So, you’re at it again,” she said, trying to keep her tone light but concerned, cheerful but compassionate, involved but objective. What a drag.
    Sitting at the computer, no lights on in the room other than that emitted by the screen, Marietta was a sorry sight. Her eyes were swollen into tight, puffy slits, her nose bright red, and she was shivering slightly in her black lace nightgown.
    “You wouldn’t believe what he’s saying about me in the chat room,” she said, pointing to the screen. “He’s turning all my roomies against me, telling lies about what happened between us last night.”
    Savannah walked over to the sofa and picked up a soft chenille afghan that Gran had knitted for her last winter. Draping it around her sister’s shoulders, she gave her a few pats on the back.
    “Go to bed, Mari,” she said. “It’s the middle of the night, and you’ve had a full last couple of days.” “Today’s been the worst day of my life.”
    Without even trying, Savannah could remember dozens of Marietta’s previous “worst days.” But she decided it wasn’t the time to mention that Marietta had at least one of the worst days of her life every six months or so.
    “You’ll feel better tomorrow, when you’re rested. I’ll make you a big breakfast in the morning with grits and biscuits.”
    “Real biscuits? Not those canned things?”
    “Real ones with butter and peach preserves.”
    A smile replaced the forlorn look on Marietta’s face, and Savannah wondered, as she had many times, at the power of good food to lift the sagging spirits of the Reid family females.
    “You go upstairs, crawl into that soft feather bed of mine, and get a good, long night’s sleep. Tomorrow morning, with a mug of my strong, chicory-flavored coffee in your hand, you’ll be a new woman.”
    Marietta nodded woodenly, typed a few more words into the computer, then closed it down.
    As she rose from the chair and made her way toward the foot of the stairs, she said, ‘You know, Savannah... I’ve learned something from this horrible experience, this degradation and humiliation.”
    Savannah didn’t really want to know, but the laws of Southern gentility demanded that she ask. “What have you learned, Mari?”
    “Men suck. Romance sucks.”
    Savannah could see it now: a greeting card embellished with roses, lilacs, and lace... with those golden words embossed across the front.
    “Don’t you think so, too, Savannah?” Marietta said, her foot on the first step, her eyes haunted.
    “Well, I can see why you’d say that, but...”
    “No, really. You know I’m right. There’s no such thing as finding your One True Love. Don’t you agree?” Savannah shrugged. “Some men suck, Marietta. But not all—not by a long shot. A lot of them are really good people at heart. But it’s true that romance hurts when it ends... or never really gets going in the first place.”
    “And there’s no such thing as a soul mate.”
    Passing her arm around Marietta’s waist, she coaxed her up the stairs. “I’m not sure about that soul mate stuff. I think if a person works hard to be a good mate— and their partner does the same—sometimes they can touch on a really deep, spiritual level. Probably not every hour of every day, but...”
    “I want it every minute of every hour of every day. I want to be everything to my man.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I want to be his whole world.”
    “I know you do, Marietta. But men have lives, too, you know. They have other things they like to do besides gaze into your eyes and tell you how wonderful you are. Sometimes they might want to do a guy thing that doesn’t involve you—like watch sports on TV, or putter in the garage, or take a nap. You might have to settle for a deep, soulful connection once a week, say on a Friday night... after dinner and before sex... for five or ten minutes. From what I hear, that’s about as