Two Plane Tickets to Savannah and the Sixty Day Marriage Agreement

Arthur did not look up when his knuckle scraped against the formica table, leaving a thin smudge of butter. He had stopped wiping his fingers on his napkin, letting them dry on his trousers instead.

I poured the hot coffee into his favorite ceramic mug, watching the steam rise toward the yellowing ceiling of our Oak Creek kitchen. He grunted as the continue reading …