I sleep in the guest room so I won’t have to talk to Timothy. In the morning, he wakes before I do and lets me sleep, a little thing that would normally piss me off because then I’m late for work, but I’m not going into the office today. When I stumble into the kitchen, wiping the sleep from my eyes, I upend the empty coffee pot and grumble, “Where’s the coffee?”
From the dining room table, looking out over the balcony at the river and the clear day beyond, Timothy tells me, “I didn’t know you wanted any.”
Bullshit. I slam the coffee pot on the counter, hard enough to rattle the dishes drying by the sink. He plays such petty games, I don’t know why I bother to put up with them. Doesn’t matter—I have to stop for gas before I hit the road, I’ll just grab a cup to go. As if noticing the tim
