Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

house was drafty by eight in the evening, and the hallway radiator was starting to hiss.

Donald sat in his recliner, his wool tie off now, staring at a glossy tri-fold brochure in his lap.

I sat on the opposite end of the sofa, my hands tucked under my thighs to keep the oil from staining the fabric.

“What is that you are looking at, Donald?” I asked.continue reading …