That’s Martha. And as usual, she’s not happy. Not like she used to be. When we first met, it seemed I could do no wrong. My biggest sin was goading her into doing and saying things she might not have otherwise. I could get away with it back then. I could get away with anything; we were infatuated.
“But that’s what friends are for,” I tell her, my lips barely moving at all. “To stretch each other.”
She calls me a bad influence, then I mumble something about being her only influence. I should know better. This is the kind of conversation that precipitates Martha’s vanishing acts.