The first time the topic came up, it arrived disguised as a joke.
It was the second Tuesday of the month, and the Maple Street Writers’ Circle had gathered in the back room of the library where the carpet carried the faint, permanent scent of old glue and winter boots. The room was always too bright, fluorescent lights flattening everyone’s face into a kind of honest exhaustion. There were twelve folding chairs arranged in a ring, twelve paper cups of water sweating onto the table at the side, and, as usual, the same bulletin board on the wall with the same curling flyers: “TAX HELP FOR SENIORS,” “BEGINNER’S KNITTING,” “VOTE HERE.”
Mara arrived five minutes early, because she’d learned that arriving five minutes late meant walking into the soft, collective inhalation of the group. As if her entrance were a minor event that needed to be absorbed and forgiven.
