Inner Column

Boar turned the newspaper’s page carefully, minding the crease, and then smoothed it with his fingers. He read a few headlines, looking for something to interest him.

“I’m done the dishes,” his daughter said, from the across the table.

“Dried and put away?” he asked, not looking up. “Nothing soaking in the sink?”

She turned and stomped back into the kitchen. He smiled. He remembered when her mother pouted in that same way. Boar closed the paper, then folded it neatly, always running his fingers along the crease.

“I’ll help,” he said, calling after her. “Then we’ll do something fun.”

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