I have to call Georgia for help with the air conditioner. “I thought I couldn’t come over this weekend,” she says.
“I don’t think I can lift it by myself.”
“I see.” I can hear her washing dishes. “So I’m allowed to come over if you need something.”
She arrives within five minutes, as I knew she would. Under the brim of her straw hat her eyes are like peas in aspic. She has a dishcloth tucked into a pocket of her jeans. Georgia has never been married, but she is a better version of the wife I used to be. Her grocery lists say six damask plums where I would write fruit.
“Don’t worry,” she says, taking the screen out of the window. “I’ll be gone by the time they get here.”
