H.H. Hunter and Son! I guess that's how it starts. There are no- no violent scenes, no...

Harry Hunter:

May-maybe it starts the first time you come home twenty minutes late for dinner, and your wife greats you at the door with those welcoming words, 'The meatloaf is cold!' Your first instinct is to say, 'If it's cold, reheat the lousy thing.' Instead you apologize, and you say you love cold meatloaf! That cold meatloaf you eat is your Münich. You've said, 'Peace at any price.' It's when you light a cigar in the living room, and she sniffs as though you're polluting the air. Rather than contaminate this delicate flower you married, you go out and finish the cigar on the front lawn. Like- like a dog who's being punished for soiling the rug. Maybe the first night she uses the ultimate weapon. You walk into- into your bedroom, and there on the night table next to her stands the aspirin bottle. With a grim message: Have headache- don't touch! What do you do? David Sloane:
Don't touch. [Harry fumes and moans] Harry Hunter:
You curl up in the fetal position and you pray for merciful sleep! And children. Children! She won't even discuss it. I always wanted a child. And if it were a boy: H.H. Hunter and Son! I guess that's how it starts. There are no- no violent scenes, no drawn knives, no blazing guns, just a thousand little frustrations! And suddenly one night you find yourself with a perfect stranger!