The keyboard clacks in a burst of inspiration, then the chair creaks after he hits the send button. Her computer beeps signaling the new message. She scrolls up the list, clicks the bold text, peruses, composes a reply and sends. He adjusts his trifocal glasses, squints anyway, frowns, jabs at the keyboard in reply. The tennis-match argument continues, volley by volley, each attempting to smash the other into submission, each getting more agitated as the calm of the morning evaporates until finally, he knocks over his cuppa on his laptop, which emits a feeble sparking sound and shut down.
“You know, you could just turn around and talk to me,” she says.