The paper receipt felt hot against my skin under the fabric of my skirt. I waited until I heard the kitchen faucet run before I pulled the receipt out and tucked it deep inside my old leather purse.
In the afternoon, I went out to the front porch to sweep the dried oak leaves off the steps. The air was cool, but the sun was bright enough to make me squint as I worked the broom into the corners.
Mrs. Gable, my neighbor from across the gravel driveway, was leaning against her mailbox, watching the yellow school bus pass. She was sixty-eight, with silver hair kept tight in a bun, and she always wore a blue cardigan even in the early autumn heat.
“You’re turning fifty next week, aren’t you, Elena?” she called out, walking over to the edge of my lawn.
“On the twelfth,” I said, resting my hands on top of the broom handle.
“Are the kids taking you somewhere nice?”
