“What are you talking about? I gave you the key yesterday morning before you left.” She stuffed her hands in her warm peacoat’s cavernous pockets, though her legs were exposed, her feet in pink ballet shoes. He searched his pockets, jacket and pants, noting only his car, home and work keys, plus two receipts.
“No, you didn’t. I responded twice yesterday each time you texted me about it while I….” He disliked texting. She liked convenience.
“Yeah right, this is stupid,” she said, pivoting away. He stood, pretending steady.
“Don’t divert. You did not give me the key.” He wished she had. She knew she had not.
“Well I thought I did and now mine’s upstairs and we’re stuck out here on the sidewalk.” She regretted that last part, for selfish reasons. He wondered why she would decide to give him another new key.
He added, “Stuck in forty two degree cold.”
She fumed, “It can’t just be cold with you, can it? It has to be forty fucking two degrees!”
His father was a well-funded, widely-published research oncologist. Hers was a lead interior painter for a local home building contractor. He once