After we hid the large bills in her sweater bin under the bed, we stuffed the twenties, tens and fives in her teapot collection. Annie didn’t want the money. Especially not in her favorite pot. Large and yellow, it was made to look like a lemon. We bought that one in Italy when we were still getting along. After we had spaghetti carbonara in a little café off the beaten track. It was dusky when we finished, and the side streets had thinned out. She saw it in a shop window that hadn’t shuttered yet for the night. The one she used to use to make iced tea. Before I cheated. Before the cousins. Before the money in spaghetti boxes. When she still trusted me. When she trusted the water was safe for drinking. When she believed organic lemon peel was legit. When she lifted the tea kettle without a pot holder. When she thought she was lovely. All that.
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