Despite having just one leg, Rita is fiercely dependent. She does make trips into town, but not all that often. Every two weeks or so, she comes to have dinner at the bar and catch up with the few friends she’s made in Oakrest.
“I got you some fruit and basic essentials,” I tell her as I put away her groceries. “I also found some packets of lentils and picked up a few. I know you like your lentil soup.”
"You’re a peach.” Rita puts the coffee beans in the grinder. “Do you mind pulling some weeds from around the gate, dear? My knee is giving me a little trouble, and I don’t want my flowers to die out.”
“Sure,” I sigh.
She always kicks me out of the kitchen when she’s making her special coffee. If it’s not one excuse, it’s another. The coffee she makes is the best I’ve ever had. Whatever
