Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

Robert,” I said, using my left hand to smear the oil over my split thumbnail.

He leaned forward, his eyes dropping to my greasy fingers and the rough, yellowed ridges that the oil could not hide.

“Those dry nails are the first sign of a body giving up, Martha,” he said.

I pulled my hand back, but he kept his gaze fixed on my lap.

“You cannot leverage continue reading …