Me, with my mouth fuller: “Probably.”
“You okay?”
I leaned back into the couch. The dog put his head on my foot. The cobbler was warm and the apartment was quiet and the trophy was on the shelf where it belonged.
“I’m eating my grandmother’s blueberry cobbler with my husband on a Wednesday morning,” I said. “I’m better than okay.”
The phone buzzed again.
I let it.
Some doors don’t close with a slam.
