Cole’s early soccer practice, the one Rick had used, continued without Rick driving. Lisa drove. The field was cold. She brought a thermos. Other mothers talked about the game. She talked about the cold. The cold was safe. A mother asked if Rick was traveling. Lisa said he had a new address. The mother said oh. Oh was enough. Lisa did not fill it. Filling it would have made a thread in a parking lot. She was done providing threads. Cole scored nothing and played hard. She told him so. Hard was a cheer she could give without a television.
Rick learned Cole’s history grade without being asked to sign a form, because the conference had woken him up. He asked what the chapter was. Cole said railroads. Rick said he knew a little. Cole said then don’t quiz me. Rick said I won’t. The won’t was a retirement of a different sentence. They ate pizza with a topping that was technically a vegetable. Cole reported the topping. Lisa said miracles. The word was almost a joke. She allowed the almost. Almost was not a shrine.
Pam got the flute soloist through the concert and cried in the car for ordinary reasons. Lisa sat with her. Ordinary tears were a relief. Not every saltwater event had a lock screen. Pam said thank you for not making this about the camouflage. Lisa said the camouflage can have the other Sundays. This one is a flute. They listened to the radio on the way home, a song neither hated. The song ended. The house was still there. Cole was at Derek’s. The quiet was clean. Lisa slept six hours. Six was a record. She wrote it nowhere. Some records were not for Joan.