…not slicing existential dread today."
She stepped toward the door like a detective in a noir film, coffee in one hand, sarcasm holstered in the other. The family watched, bracing themselves like survivors of a brunch tornado, unsure whether salvation or saxophones awaited them.
The knock came again. Soft. Punctual. With the kind of emotional confidence that said, I rehearse my goodbyes in the mirror and alphabetize my heartbreaks.
Ava opened the door.
Standing there was a man dressed in a three-piece velvet suit so aggressively mauve it looked like he'd skinned a romance novel. He held a bouquet of what could only be described as emotionally complex tulips—some of them were weeping.
"Good day," he said, with an accent that was probably cultivated in a summer camp for dramatists. "I am Jasper Witherington the Third, Professional Closure Consultant."
There was a pause. Ava blinked. "Come again?"
