Sixty-three Year Old Widow Refused to Hide Her Gray Hair at Work

humming their usual low B-flat. I was waiting for the coffee maker to drip when Brenda walked in, her heels clicking sharp against the linoleum.

She reached into her pocket, pulled out her pink tube of lip balm, and applied a thick, greasy layer before looking at me. “Martha, sweetie, did you forget the keys to the Elm Street duplex again?”