The paper receipt was hot under the fabric of my skirt. I waited until I heard the tap in the kitchen before I pulled it out and stuffed it deep into my old leather handbag.
In the afternoon, I went out onto the porch to sweep dried oak leaves off the steps. The air was cool, but the sun was bright enough to make me squint as I swept the corners with a broom.
Mrs. Gable, my neighbor across the street, leaned against the mailbox, watching a yellow school bus pass by. She was sixty-eight years old, had silver hair pulled back in a tight bun, and always wore a blue cardigan, even in the early autumn heat.
“You’re turning fifty next week, aren’t you, Elena?” she called, walking to the edge of my lawn.
“The twelfth,” I said, resting my hands on the broom handle.
“Do the kids take you anywhere cool?”
