Mark
Claire opened the door with that warm, familiar smile she always greeted me with, and I handed her the bottle of wine I'd brought, already composing the easy small talk I'd rehearsed on the drive over. Ten years since the divorce, and we'd settled into a friendship so uncomplicated it barely required effort anymore. A dinner every year or two. A phone call at the holidays. Nothing that asked much of either of us.
"You look wonderful," I told her, and I meant it. Claire had always carried herself well, steady in a way I respected even back when we were simply solving each other's problems for six months a decade ago.
"Come in, come in. I have someone I'm dying for you to properly meet." She was practically glowing with the anticipation of it, tugging me by the arm toward the kitchen
