I married Andy Morrison four months after we met. It was a mistake, the marriage, but I didn’t realize it until after the wedding weekend and by then it was done. Andy had gone along with the marriage plan gamely, though I guessed that was because I was only his second real girlfriend, an initially gratifying position that turned sour when, a few months after the wedding, I ran into Girlfriend Number One at the car wash. We recognized each other immediately, and while I would have been content to simply hide behind the spinning rack of air freshener trees, Girlfriend Number One took off her giant sunglasses and said, “I just want you to know, I don’t envy you.”

***

“Are you cold?” Andy asked as he arranged pieces of newspaper over his legs. He was the only person I knew under the age of fifty who read newspapers on actual paper.

“No,” I said, though I could feel the wind blowing through the cracks of the car window. It was still light out—just barely—but the late-winter weather was bad enough that all I could see was a grey-white wall of snow. The cold was settling under my skin, around my bones, threading through my blood.

Sorry. Stories are free on our website for a period of time and are moved to Amazon.com. The Amazon kindle app is available for smart phones, computers, tablets, and e-readers.