It reached almost 100 degrees in Minnesota on the day that Erica and Adam got married. Frank cried. I did, too, but it was because I was happy.
I waited for Frank to realize I had stopped walking.
Wearing a sweater over my favorite nightie, I savored the comfort of our couch and held a mug that once held a bouquet of flowers he’d sent to work on my birthday.
Sipping my drink, by now a curdled combination of oily caffeine and clotted cream, I was by no means in denial of our relationship’s dissolution.
It was too early in the day for me to have lost my keys to the store, and my hair was already up, so I wasn’t in need of a ponytail holder. The girls were intrigued.
My delivery was crisp, but the words were chewy in my mouth. I swished the sounds around with my tongue and tried to determine, “Is it too salty? Undercooked? Please, tell me what I need.”
