“I’m sorry about the curry,” he said, handing her a glass.
“One coat,” he said. “For me.”
He didn’t joke. He looked at her—really looked. At the flour in her hair, the chipped nail polish, the fierce exhaustion in her eyes. ibu hot
Silence, except for the baby’s wail and the drip of something sticky from the ceiling. “I’m sorry about the curry,” he said, handing