“You always take my little jokes so seriously,” he said, laughing as he walked into the living room.
I stood there for a long time, watching my reflection in the dim light of the bathroom. I rubbed my hands down my thighs, feeling the rough cotton of my apron against my palms.
On Thursday morning, the mail carrier left the monthly credit card statement on the porch. I sat at the dining room table with the envelope, sliding a silver butter knife under the seal to open it quietly.
The charge from Evelyn’s Dress Shop was right there near the bottom, one hundred and forty dollars, standing out against the utility bills and the grocery totals. I heard Damon’s heavy boots descending the wooden stairs.
