Thursday evening. In the kitchen.
I turn when I hear breaking glass. Erin stands at the sink holding half a drinking cup in her hand. She smirks.
I turn when I hear breaking glass. Erin stands at the sink holding half a drinking cup in her hand. She smirks.
"I just got really mad."
"You know a piece of this is going to end up in my foot, right?" I say, picking up chunks of glass from the counter.
"It broke cleanly in about four pieces," she says. "Maybe this time you'll be fine."
"Maybe."
I sweep.
She sweeps.
**
She sweeps.
**
Next morning. 6:17. I stride across the dark kitchen to flip the light switch.
Sharp intake of breath.
