As was she. “Same thing.”
“No it isn’t.”
Twelve-thirty- lunch: “Why not, It’s Monday tomorrow.”
“Sore feet. Doctor’s orders.”
Seven o’clock- : A change of tactics, even though earlier he had said he wouldn’t, not couldn’t, which irked.
“How are your feet? Still not great?”
With dignity and forbearance, he limped outside.
She settled on the couch accepting that she was to hear, again, the sore foot saga: the tenderness the podiatrist, the ointment, now that he had put the rubbish out.
That was the deal.