Sara reread the text once,
twice,
then three times:
something came up, can’t make it.
She looked at the apple pie
steaming in the oven.
The smell wafting through the kitchen
no longer smelled so sweet;
there’d be no date.
Hours of scouring the attic
for Grandma’s dusty recipe.
Made with apples Sara handpicked.
Weeks of preparing
because he once said he loved apples.
All ruined an hour before,
no call,
no explanation.
It’s okay, she texts back.
Sara eats her apple pie, alone.