“It’s burnt, Joe.”
“I like it burnt.”
Ezoic
She laughed. She pulled back and looked up at him. She put her hand on his cheek.
Ezoic
“You look tired,” she said.
“I am tired,” Mark said. “I’ve been driving a long time.”
“Well, you’re home now,” Frances said. “Sit down. Sit. I’ll get you a plate.”
Mark sat down at the kitchen table. The same table he ate breakfast at every morning for eighteen years. The one with the burn mark in the corner from his science fair project in 1983.
His mother put a plate in front of him.
The pot roast was burnt. The carrots were mushy. The potatoes were raw in the middle. There was no gravy because she’d forgotten to make it.
Mark ate every bite.
“Is it good, Joe?” she asked. She was sitting across from him. Watching him. Her chin in her hand.
