Concrete Gardenia Blooms in December

Margaret stood by the apartment complex pool, its December water still and opaque as spilled ink. Her friend Clara arrived twenty minutes late, wearing that ridiculous fedora she'd bought in Prague—the one Margaret had secretly mocked for years.

"You're wearing the hat," Margaret said, unable to keep the judgment from her voice.

Clara's hand flew to the brim. "It's my father's. He died last week."

The silence between them thickened, measurable in seconds. Margaret's therapist kept telling her to repair this bridge, that estrangement was a choice, not a fate. Some choices were necessary.

A calico cat appeared on the third-floor balcony above them, staring down with orange-ringed eyes like it knew their history. Margaret had held that same cat when Clara miscarried five years ago, had sat on Clara's couch while both of them wept into matching tissues, while Clara's husband drank whiskey in the kitchen and pretended nothing was happening.

Then came the betrayal: Clara sleeping with Margaret's boyfriend. The timing—two weeks after the miscarriage—had made it grotesque rather than merely cruel. Margaret had stopped returning calls. Clara had sent letters. Margaret had burned them.

"I'm sorry," Clara said now. "About Thomas. About everything."

Margaret looked at her reflection in the dark pool water—gray-streaked hair pulled back severely, lines around her mouth that hadn't existed five years ago. She was forty-two now. Tired of carrying the weight.

The cat meowed, a mournful sound.

"His funeral is Thursday," Clara said. "I don't want to be there alone."

Margaret remembered Clara's father, a man who'd given them his basement key so they could smoke pot in high school. Who'd pretended not to notice when they came home drunk at sixteen. Who'd made them grilled cheese and asked about their dreams.

"Thursday at three?"

Clara's shoulders dropped. "Thank you."

Margaret nodded once, sharp as a knife cut. Some things you forgave. Some things you just accommodated. The pool reflected nothing—it was too dark for that. But the cat above them purred, and that was something.