We ate at the kitchen table, laughing about work, bad television, and the disastrous state of my laundry.
For the first time in months, my house felt warm.
Not because of the heating.
Because of her.
After dinner, Sarah insisted on washing the dishes while I dried them.
She handed me a plate.
“You know, Jenna always said you were too serious.”
“Jenna once spent forty minutes arguing with a parking meter. I don’t think she’s qualified to diagnose my personality.”
Sarah laughed.
“She did have a temper.”
“She had a talent for turning a minor inconvenience into a three-act tragedy.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say about your ex.”
“Would you prefer a sonnet?”
“Please don’t.”
“Your daughter’s eyes are like two parking tickets—”
Sarah burst out laughing so hard that she nearly dropped a glass.
I grinned.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying my poetry.”
“You’re terrible.”
“I’m available for weddings and funerals.”
