cake.”
Then she shrugged.
“So thanks for ruining my evening, I guess.”
For a moment, I genuinely had no response.
She was blaming me.
For the mixer she borrowed.
The mixer she broke.
The mixer she returned filthy.
“Denise, it worked perfectly when you took it.”
“It was more than thirty years old.”
“Thirty-six.”
“Exactly.”
She smiled as if I had just supported her argument.
“It was going to break eventually.”
“Did you overload it?”
“No.”
“Did you keep running it after it started struggling?”
Her expression shifted.
Only slightly.
