harp, empty sound that did not belong in our quiet kitchen at a quarter past six.
He turned the bag upside down over the linoleum table, letting a yellow legal pad and three black ballpoint pens slide across the clean surface.
I hung the damp dish towel over the oven handle and watched him search the pockets.
“It is not in here, Dani,” he said, his voice rising just enough to make me look up.
Julian was usually a quiet man, the kind who folded his socks before putting them in the drawer and never had to search for his keys.
“Did you check your coat pocket?” I asked.
“We will figure it out,” I said, repeating the phrase he always used when our old furnace started knocking in the winter.
He did not reply, his fingers wrapping around the steering wheel as he stared at the dark dashboard.
The cold was beginning to seep through my slippers, so I reached for the door handle.
“Let us go back inside and get some dinner,” I said. “You cannot find it in the dark anyway.”
The kitchen smelled of vegetable soup, the pot still simmering on the back burner of our electric stove.
A four-dollar gallon of milk sat on the counter, sweating slightly in the warm air of the room.Julian stood by the stove, his face pale, using a wooden spoon to stir the broth while I set out two ceramic bowls.
As he reached for the salt shaker, his blue cuff slid back an inch, revealing his wrist.
A faint, uneven smudge of bright green paint ran across his skin, just below his silver watch band.
“What is that on your arm?” I asked, pointing toward his wrist.
