Trinidad checks her crumpled shopping list. She’s just picked up the bouquet of flowers. That’s everything. The drive home is quick despite intermittent traffic. Trinidad slips through the front door with grocery bags hooked over her arms, especially careful with the bouquet. Streeter hunches over a worn cardboard box in the living room, wrestling with a cluster of wires inside. “Tachyon” is scribbled on the box’s side in black.
Published At Across The Margin