Maya

I press the stones onto the step with my pick and grab the glue, squeezing it into the crevice to fasten the pieces to the model. I feel an urge to glance at the clock on the microwave again, but I refrain, knowing it hasn’t been more than two minutes since the last time I checked.

It’s after six, and Richard is late. He’s hardly ever late.

As the minutes go by, though, I feel my temper rise, because he hasn’t called, either, and he specifically asked me to be home. This isn’t like him, but it’s damn-well like every other guy I’ve known. I’m that girl they can treat like garbage and make wait, because I take it.

For a while, anyway.

The pizza I ordered, half pepperoni and half taco, was delivered an hour ago and is keeping warm in the oven, while my salad is in…