The lawyer had been practicing for twenty-five years, which meant he had spent half his life learning that people rarely said what they meant and almost never did what they said. He was fifty, divorced, and still sufficiently optimistic to believe that a Sunday morning with a shotgun could improve a man’s disposition.

He had not expected the woman next door to complicate the exercise.

There are two kinds of people in the world.

The first kind makes lists.

The second kind makes fun of people who make lists and then secretly borrows their lists when things go wrong.

She belonged to the first category.

He belonged to the second.

This was unfortunate for both of them.

JAG

Marriage oriented

The candles were still going. Three of them, half melted, dripping wax onto the nightstand like they were keeping score. Neither of us had planned that either. They were leftovers from a dinner two nights back that I’d forgotten to blow out, and she’d relit them for no particular reason, which in hindsight was either romantic instinct or she just liked the smell. With her, it’s usually both, and she’ll never tell you which.

He was a divorce lawyer, which meant he'd spent thirty years watching other people's marriages explode. The irony was that he'd never bothered with one himself. Why sign a contract you know will be broken?

She left the house at 6:15 a.m. before anyone woke up.

Before her husband could ask if she'd written the thank-you notes to his parents. Before her daughter could need her hair done or her lunch packed or clarification on homework she'd already explained twice. Before her son could make a mess that wasn't technically anyone's fault but somehow became hers to manage. Before the mental arithmetic began—the endless calculation of who needed what, when, and whether she had the emotional bandwidth to provide it.

Road

Good days

Car