He smiled to show he was joking, but his coffee mug clattered loudly against the tiled countertop as he set it down.
I took a piece of damp toilet paper and wiped the berry color from my lips until they were pale again. I threw the paper into the trash can without looking at it.
“You always take my jokes so seriously,” he said with a laugh as he entered the living room.
I stood for a long time, staring at my reflection in the dim bathroom light. I rubbed my hands over my thighs, feeling the rough cotton of my apron against my palms.
Thursday morning, the mailman left my monthly credit card statement on the porch. I sat at the dining room table with the envelope, sliding a silver butter knife under the seal to quietly open it.
The bill from Evelyn’s Dress Shop was at the bottom, one hundred and forty dollars, a significant departure from the utility bill and grocery bill. I heard the thud of Damon’s heavy boots descending the wooden stairs.
