By Julie Howard
The robin gazed at her, its eyes dark and glassy, drunk on the berries from her crabapple tree. She’d always thought of those birds as cheerful harbingers of spring, but in the frigid north, they flocked to her trees in mid-winter, stripping it bare.
It was her anniversary. Eight years. Megan turned from the window.
In her closet, she slipped on her tallest heels, the ones with narrow stakes that propped up her calves to their shapeliest limit. They elevated Megan’s uninspired behind into a delicious curve and made her feel as though she were tip-toeing across the room.