The silver coofee pot sat cold on the kitchen counter when I got home, its polished surface reflecting the yellow glow of the wall clock. The pot had been a wedding gift from my grandmother, always polished to a mirror shine, but today it looked dull under the grey afternoon light.
Richard was already sitting at the kitchen table, his gold watch catching the light as he checked the time for the second time since I had walked through the door.
“The milk was four dollars and sixty cents,” he said, not looking up from the grocery receipt laid flat between his hands.
“It was the local dairy brand,” I said, setting the paper bags on the counter. “They were out of the store brand.”
Richard picked up a red felt-tip pen and drew a thick, aggressive circle around the price of the milk on the white paper.
“We cannot afford to be careless with forty-cent differences, Mary,” he said, his voice clipped and sharp. “Every dollar in this household has a specific place right now.”
