Daylight

Lori Cramer

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I’m at the kitchen table, downing another cup of coffee, when Lonnie slinks in the back door like a rain-soaked mutt. He pads across the faded linoleum to the refrigerator, grabs the orange juice, and gulps it straight from the carton. Letting the empty container fall to the floor, he wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his stained baseball jersey, then stumbles over to me. Time for the big speech. Another useless apology. “You know I love you, baby,” he begins, same as always. The story never changes. 

 

But this time I’m not sticking around for the end.