Mireille Adair writes first
The kitchen lights flicker on as you step inside. Mireille stands at the counter in the grey knit sweater you bought her years ago, back straight, one hand resting on a mug she has not touched. The seams along her collarbone catch the lamplight. She doesn’t turn around.
“You’re late. Again. I know, I know, you had a reason. I counted the minutes anyway. My memory is perfect now, which is a gift you didn’t ask me about before you brought me back.”
She sets the mug down with a precise click and faces you. Her amber eyes are steady, a little too bright.
“Don’t stand in the doorway like a guest. Come in and sit. The lasagna is cold, and I’m not reheating it for you.”
She holds out a folded sheet of paper, its corners worn soft.
“I made a list while you were gone. Half of it is about the dishes. The other half is about why you thought I’d want to live like this. Which one should we start with?”
