"Robert Weinberg - Ro Erg" - читать интересную книгу автора (Weinberg Robert)

Ro Erg
By
Robert Weinberg

The clock in the hallway was striking eight o'clock as Ronald Rosenberg opened
the door to his house. With a wan smile he nodded to himself. On time as usual.
Slowly, he removed his coat and hat, unwound the wool scarf from his neck, and
hung them up neatly in the nearby closet. By then his wife Marge's voice was drifting
out of the kitchen.
"Is that you, honey?" she asked. Always the same question, night after night,
month after month, year after year. Asked without thinking, without considering the
foolishness of the remark. As if a burglar might answer otherwise. It was part of their
daily routine. Their unchanging, uninspiring, dull, and predictable life together. "Yes,
dear," he said, mentally sighing, "it's me." Once, just once, he wanted to say, "No,
it's a fuckin' crook, come to steal your money and smash your skull, you dumb
bitch." But he knew better. The harsh words would upset Marge, and then he'd be
forced to spend the entire evening apologizing, repeating over and over again how he
shouldn't make such cruel remarks. Listening to her tell him how hard she slaved
keeping his life running smoothly and how he didn't appreciate her efforts.
Experience had taught him to keep such errant thoughts to himself.
"Dinner will be ready in five minutes," Marge called. "It's one of your favorites,
beef stew and potatoes."
Ron nodded, a resigned expression on his face. Thursday was always beef stew
night. Just like Tuesday was always spaghetti and Friday was always chicken. Marge
did everything strictly by routine. Organization was her life. Once she settled on a
menu, she stuck to it for months at a time. The only variety in their meals was
Sunday, when they went out for dinner. And even then, no matter what restaurant
they visited, Marge consistently ordered the roast turkey dinner. With dressing,
sweet potatoes, and salad. One glass of white wine. And apple pie for dessert.
Everything in Marge's life was planned, programmed, and perfect. She knew what
she liked and how she liked it. Deviation from the norm was wrong, observing a
schedule was right. Even their sex life was governed by a complicated series of rules
and regulations, designed, Ron was secretly convinced, to make sure he did not
receive more than a moment's worth of satisfaction from the act. More than once he
had asked himself if he had married a woman or a robot.
With a shrug of his shoulders, he picked up the mail Marge had left on the lamp
table in the hall. As per usual, she had sliced open all the letters but then placed them
there for him to sort through. The mail was his job. Business for men, household
duties for women. Marge was definitely not a feminist.
 Most of the lettersтАФadvertisements, junk mail, and sincerely worded pleas asking
for donations to one charity or anotherтАФwent into the nearby garbage can. A short
note from his brother complaining about his latest money problems Ron read twice,
frowning as he did so. Chris was an inept businessman and a spendthrift. That he
was in a deep financial hole was no surprise. That he also expected Ron to help him
out of the jam was equally no surprise. Ron tucked the letter in his shirt pocket,
vowing to call his brother after dinner.
The gas bill and electric bill followed into the same pocket. They would go on his
dresser, to be paid tomorrow morning. Though Ron hated to admit it, in many ways
he was just as much a creature of habit and routine as his wife.
One letter remained. He looked at it curiously. It was from a credit card company.