The kitchen smelled like coffee and the toaster and the crayon wax from the drawings on the refrigerator, a Saturday smell, quiet, the backyard still wet past the sliding door. White cabinets. A stone island with mail spread on it. Cereal bowls waiting. In the family room the gray sectional held a blanket the boy had dragged there and forgotten. Morning light came in clean. Nobody had raised a voice yet.
Daniel Hart sat at the island in a charcoal henley and lounge pants, white socks, thirty-nine, sandy-brown hair, the silver band dull from the sink. He was reading a water bill as if a water bill could be interesting. Alicia Hart stood at the counter with her back half to him, thirty-six, burgundy top, jeans, gold hoops, her hair in a loose high puff. She cracked an egg. She looked like a woman in her own kitchen because she was.
Miles ran in from the hall. Six. Light-brown skin, soft curls, hazel eyes. An adult man’s green-and-cream varsity jacket hung to his knees. One sleeve ate his hand. A silver watch slid on his wrist when he lifted his arms. He was proud in the way six is proud, all teeth.
“Dad, look! Do I look like a college guy?”