I sat at my kitchen table for a long time. The cookies were still warm. The smell filled the whole kitchen.
I picked up the plate. I carried it to the trash can. I scraped every single cookie into the garbage.
Then I sat down on the kitchen floor with my back against the cabinets and cried.
I didn’t tell Irvin that night.
I don’t know why. I think I was ashamed. Ashamed that I’d let her into my house. Ashamed that her words had hit so hard. Ashamed that some part of me was afraid she might be right.
Men get bored after that many years.
I lay awake that night next to my husband. He was snoring softly. He always sleeps on his back with one arm flung over his eyes, like he’s shielding himself from the sun. I watched him in the dark.
