Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

honey first,” I said, reaching for the glass jar on the counter.

The small red clay flowerpot we used for the starter herbs sat dry on the windowsill, catching the grey morning light.

I gripped the metal lid of the honey jar with my right hand, bracing my thumb against the ribbed edge to twist.

A sharp, hot pain zipped straight down continue reading …