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When I don’t answer, she rolls over to make room for me and pats the mattress. “Come to bed, Sadie,” she whispers, her voice thick with sleep. “I’ve just had the best idea, and I want to tell you every little thing.”
I climb into bed and tuck the knife underneath the mattress. I live for Ann’s stories. I’m in love with her ideas. Especially when I get to take credit for them. Every love affair has its rituals. As she curls her warm body around mine, I think of the knife and I tell myself maybe tomorrow. But tomorrow usually turns out just the same.
