His knuckles were stiff from work.

Mom wore a beige blouse she’d spent an afternoon ironing.

She kept smoothing the cuff, where she’d repaired a loose button with slightly mismatched thread.

I’d asked to seat them beside me.

Olivia refused.

She said the arrangements had already been printed.

At dinner, she rose with a champagne glass in her hand.

Her nails tapped against the rim.