Eleven Years of Eating Lunch by a Window in Columbus, Ohio, Ended With a Box I Never Expected
“Wax paper.
For eleven years.”
“He always brought two,” Liam said.
“In case you forgot yours.”
I wiped a spot on the counter that had already been clean for a while.
By ten after ten I had forty-two timestamp matches penciled down the margin of a legal pad, and my silver ring had spun so many times it left a red line around my finger.
“The 2018 folder,” I said.
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