“That’s not an apple, Jane,” Meggy says, barely looking up from her phone. “It’s a pesticide receptacle in a cosmetically red shell.” She’s already texting again, so I ignore her and bite into my juicy McIntosh.
“That’s not yoga, Jane,” Meggy says later when I mention the new class I’m teaching. “It’s contrived poses with no spiritual balance.” She’s distracted by another text.
“That’s not funny, Jane. It’s crass.”
“That’s not true, Jane. It’s ridiculous.”
It’s not until I accidentally glance at the naked man’s photos on her phone that I can say, “That’s not your husband, Meggy. It’s his brother.”