“What’s going on?”
I pointed.
She glanced at the scratch.
Paused.
Then shrugged.
“It’s just a car,” she said.
I stared at her.
Waiting for more.
An apology.
A correction.
Continue on the next page:
Buzz
At family dinner, my husband secretly emptied a tiny white packet into my soup, then sneered, “Eat it, Diane. Stop pretending to be sick for attention.”
The moment I saw my husband empty a small amount of white powder into my bowl of chicken soup, twenty-six years of marriage changed…
