“I feel rotten,” said Lenny as he slumped into his usual chair by the window. He had dragged his messenger bag into the kitchen instead of leaving it in the foyer. It left a faint streak across the white tiles.
“Have you been reading Hemingway again?” Effie leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. That sort of thing used to make Lenny endearing, but now they were nearly thirty, for God’s sake. Would it kill him to pick up a newspaper?
“The Sun Also Rises.”
“So, yes.”
