A schedule is how people claim a thing before they are brave enough to say they are claiming it. A schedule is a flag in the ground. A way to make theft look like organization.
I reached up and removed the paper from the refrigerator.
The magnet clacked against the floor.
Ashley’s smile disappeared.
“Please don’t start a scene.”
I folded the paper once.
Then again.
“I’m not starting anything.”
And I meant it.
At my age, you learn the difference between a scene and a record.
A scene fades.
A record stays.
Ashley let out a little breathy laugh, the kind people use when they want the room to agree you are being dramatic.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s not make this emotional.”
I almost laughed then.
Not because anything was funny.
Because there is a special kind of person who can walk into a widow’s beach condo, assign her cleaning duty, and then accuse her of being emotional.
