Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

green folders.”

“What are you going to do?” Sarah asked.

“I am going to sit in my sunroom,” I said. “And I am going to think.”

The sunroom was quiet when I got home, the only sound being the slow drip of the kitchen faucet down the hall. I sat in my wicker chair, the afternoon light cutting through the glass panes at a sharp angle.

The yellow bottle of continue reading …