This morning I put my knee up and pressed play.
“Hey… it’s me.” She sighed. “I’m not calling to fight. I was wrong to say you changed. I’m sorry.”
She was quiet a second.
“You know my mama died five years ago? That first Friendsgiving after, I didn’t want to go home to an empty apartment. Your house was the only place that felt like a holiday. I think I panicked when you said no. Like if we don’t do it, I don’t know where we do it. I wasn’t trying to bully you. I thought I was helping.”
I sat there with the ice melting through the towel.
I called her back. She picked up on the second ring.
“I heard it,” I said.
“I meant it,” she said.
“I know you did. But Keish, I can’t host from the couch and pretend it’s fine. I’m in pain. I’m embarrassed how slow I am. I didn’t want y’all to see that.”
“You think I care about your house being clean?” she said. “Girl.”
“I care,” I said.
We didn’t do the big thing this year. Keisha did a small potluck at her apartment — all of six people fit. I brought a store-bought pecan pie and kept my leg up on her coffee table. Somebody burned the rolls. We ate anyway.
It wasn’t the same. But it was fine for this year.
This is a fictional story. The characters and events are imaginary. The text was written with the assistance of artificial intelligence.
