We’re on our way to my grandma’s right now. There’s this one stately white house with presidential pillars that I always pause to look at, even when I was a kid. It’s the kind of house that I always wanted to have as an adult.
The kind of house that allows voyeurs to catch an envious glimpse of the majestic Christmas tree sparkling through frosted living room windows. The kind of house that probably doctors and Cuban drug lords and porn starlets call home.
“I wish you were rich,” I bitterly said to Henry.
“I wish you were dead,” he casually responded.
Our relationship keeps getting better.