Ezoic
Ben carried in the coolers without making eye contact.
He set them in the kitchen. He opened one. It was full of hot dogs and juice boxes and string cheese and a bottle of tequila.
He looked at me. Just for a second.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
Then he went back out to the car.
My mother started opening cupboards.
Every single one. In my kitchen. One after another. Looking at my plates. My glasses. My coffee mugs. My spices.
“Oh, these are lovely,” she said. Holding up one of my hand-thrown ceramic bowls from a potter in Ocracoke. “Where’d you get these? Are they expensive?”
Ezoic
My father changed the television channel.
He didn’t ask. He walked into my living room, sat down on my couch, picked up my remote, and turned on the TV. He flipped through the channels until he found a baseball game. The Braves. He turned it up.
