“Did I ask you?” Gail said, sticking a bony finger into the fleshy part of Dolores’ upper arm. The younger sister recoiled at the older’s touch and turned away from the kitchen table the three of them were sitting at.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” she said, standing and biting down on the calloused part on the inside of her cheek.
“Well,” Gail’s grandson said. “Could be a while. Need to find the right one.”
She reached over to take his hand, clunky, glass bracelets rattling as she did.
“You can’t afford to be picky, dear.”
The kettle whistled.