Have — You Over
A week later, Clara heard a knock at her own door. It was the Millers, the Baxters, and the Durants, carrying mismatched chairs and a variety of casseroles.
Clara, a retired librarian with a penchant for observation, had lived on Willow Lane for thirty years. She had heard the phrase thousands of times. "Clara, dear, we simply must have you over for tea soon," the Millers would say, before disappearing into their garage. "Next weekend, Clara! We'll have you over for the game!" the Baxters would shout, already halfway down the sidewalk. One Tuesday, Clara decided to call the bluff. Have You Over
"You mentioned wanting to have me over," Clara said with a serene smile, handing over a tin. "I thought I'd save you the trouble of the invitation. May I come in?" A week later, Clara heard a knock at her own door
She didn't wait for the next casual encounter. Instead, she baked three dozen lemon-thyme shortbread cookies, tucked them into vintage tins, and set out. She had heard the phrase thousands of times
