At 82, I Found

hair. She had made reservations at the nicest restaurant in town, the one with white tablecloths and candles in glass cups.

Frank had come home two hours late from work, dirty and tired, and told her he was not hungry.

She had stood in the kitchen doorway, all dressed up, one hand resting against the wall.

“I thought we could celebrate,” she said.

“We’re continue reading …