No one mentioned Debbie’s name at
work. “What happened?” he asked himself
in the mirror each night before bed, just after he brushed his teeth. One moment she had been standing next to the cart,
complaining about tropical oils and the avocado Jonah had slipped in with their
groceries. And then he was holding the
perfect strawberry in winter, talking to no one. Only Bill, who Jonah sometimes came across in
the cafeteria during their mutual mid-morning coffee break, had said to Jonah,
“I’m sorry about Debbie, man.” Jonah
pretended not to hear him. He just asked
if Bill knew who had won the game last night.
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