The Line She Wouldn’t Let Me Read
Elise Moreau let herself into my apartment at seven-forty on the morning of her thirtieth birthday. She carried a white bakery box and a folded sheet of paper, and she had the expression she wore when someone was about to discover they had already lost an argument. I stood barefoot beside the coffeemaker, still wearing the shirt I had slept in.
“Happy birthday,” I said. “What time do you want me at the brewery?”
“There’s no party.”
I stopped measuring coffee.
“I canceled
