“Maybe, I just don’t give a shit.”

He leaned against the bathroom door, waiting for her to say something else. He could hear the water running in the bath. It’d been this way since dinner, the argument escalating as the pot roast grew cold on their plates. He’d spent the day cooking, used his grandmother’s recipe.

She was muttering inside the bathroom, so low he couldn’t make it out.

“Are you going to be in there all night?” he asked. When she didn’t answer, he went downstairs, pulled on his coat and went out, wondering if he’d bother coming back.

One thought on “Braised

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