The sound and scent of sizzling bacon called them all to the kitchen like that old cartoon where they float through the air on the wafting smells. 

The day was perfect—the sky a bright blue, the sun kissing the glassy sea—but below the surface, a darkness as inevitable as the passage of time slowly lumbered towards them.  

 The spotlight is a siren song (inevitably everyone drawn to it will be dashed against the rocks).

 We're being entertained to death. 

The slow-moving clouds and still water looked as lazy as Susan felt that afternoon. 

She smelled of the beach and her husband of the bar. 

 He never could figure out the reasoning behind what his brain considered worth remembering — the name of a B actor whose heyday was in the '70s — and tossing — where the hell he set his keys.