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“I got a call about Kristoff today,” she said. “He was ordered to another eight years in the mental health facility.”
I thought about that morning, eleven years ago, and no longer felt any regret.
“Good news,” I said. “Baby, do you forgive me?”
She took a bite of her chicken burrito.
“Ask me when I’m done.”
I did.
And asked her again after I made love to her.
She forgave me.
But I still made sure to buy her six cookies the next day, all from different bakeries around town, to help make up for my stupidity just in case.
