Chapter 13 - The Kitchen Window

By the time Julian and I walked back out to the truck, the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky over Washington in shades of bruised purple and burning gold.
"You okay?" Julian asked as he opened my door.
"I'm better than okay," I said, sliding into the passenger seat and letting the warm heater air hit my face. "Let's go home."
"Home," he smiled, putting the truck into gear. "Sounds good to me. What’s for dinner?"
May you like
"Brisket leftovers," I laughed, leaning my head back against the headrest. "And if you touch the garlic knots before I get the plates out, you're washing the pots."
He laughed, pulling out into the evening traffic, the steady hum of the engine carrying us back toward Hyattsville, back toward the white porch, the oak table, and the kitchen where the light always stayed warm.