He was stretched out in gray sweatpants, one ankle crossed over the other, a game controller hanging lazily from one hand. The television lit the living room in flashes of blue and orange, some racing game paused mid-crash. A half-empty energy drink sat on the coffee table next to a plate he hadn’t bothered to bring back to the kitchen.
I was still standing in the doorway with my work bag hanging off my shoulder.
I had just gotten home from a ten-hour shift, and my feet ached so badly I could feel my pulse in my heels. I worked as an operations manager for a regional medical supply company outside Columbus, Ohio. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid well, it was stable, and it was the reason the mortgage got paid on time every month. It was the reason the lights were on, the pantry was stocked, and Marcus still had Wi-Fi to waste hours on video games while claiming he was “networking.”
Behind me, from the kitchen, I could hear the clatter of pots and the high, sharp voice of my mother-in-law, Denise.
She had moved in “for two weeks” after her condo flooded.
That was eleven months ago.
Marcus never looked away from the TV.
