We sat at the kitchen table on Maple Avenue, sorting the mail that had piled up by the ceramic breadbox. The pile was mostly junk, a glossy circular for the grocery store on Main Street, a flyer for a lawn care service, and the blue envelope containing our monthly bank statement. Mark was slicing a yellow Honeycrisp apple with his pocketknife, putting each wedge cleanly into his mouth with his thumb resting against the flat of the blade.
The kitchen was quiet except for the dry scraping of the steel against the small wooden cutting board. I held the bank statement in both hands, folding the top corner down so the crease aligned perfectly with the oak edge of the table. It was our joint checking account, the one we used for the mortgage, the electric bill, and our weekly groceries.
