It had been 24 years of what-ifs
It’s only soap! Rochel reminds herself as she drops into a chair at the dining room table. She’s still holding the bottle of liquid soap, still twisting the top of the pump in furious circles until it comes off in her hand.
Mordche comes in. He’s not wearing shoes and his white shirt has that lived-in look of his mid-morning quarantine nap. “Rochel, what’s wrong?”
She shoves the beheaded soap bottle toward him and opens her palm to show him the flimsy top.
He leans closer to her. “The soap bottle broke? That’s why you’re upset?”
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