“Then sit down, honey,” she said. “It’s a long one. And you’re going to need a second cup of coffee.”
“You a trucker?” she asked, settling into a chair that groaned in protest. enough ass for two
He almost choked on his coffee.
She nodded, as if that made perfect sense. “I got a lot of junk. My late husband, Herb, he was a collector. Of things . Said every piece of crap had a story.” “Then sit down, honey,” she said
He ignored it. Marge was the kind of ex who called not to say sorry, but to explain why he was the one who should be sorry. He’d rather deal with the truck’s failing transmission. He almost choked on his coffee
Her name was Betsy. She led him into a kitchen that smelled of cinnamon and wet wool. A potbellied stove glowed in the corner. She poured him a mug of coffee that was strong enough to strip paint.