SWEET SORROW
“This,” Amy said, “is why I left you.”
They sat in a booth, not side by side, but across.
“Whattaya mean?”
“I mean, Richard, that we’re trying to patch things up and you got your nose in the newspaper.” She looked closely. “You don’t even like football, you said. You only read it to have something to talk about with the guys.”
He tossed the paper away. “I never said we’re trying to patch things up.”
“Then why are we here?”
“To get my keys back.” She watched him choose his words. “And give you back your gun.”