oft twist, put on my wine-red lipstick, and buttoned my coat all the way to the chin. The same coat as always. I don’t usually chase nostalgia, but this is different.
This is a ritual.
It takes me about 15 minutes to walk to Marigold’s Diner now. I used to do it in seven. It’s not far—just three turns, past the pharmacy and the little bookstore that continue reading …
smells like old carpet and faded dreams.
But the walk feels longer every year.
I always go at noon.
Because that’s when we met.
“You can do this, Marge,” I told myself at the door. “You’re stronger than you think.”
I met Steed at Marigold’s when I was 35. It was a Thursday. I’d missed an earlier bus and stepped in to get warm.
He was in the corner booth,continue reading …
