A year later...
_
Sundays had become sacred, not in a church bell, hymn-singing kind of way, but in the warmth of shared food and mismatched mugs, the clatter of serving spoons, and Liz dramatically announcing that we were absolutely going to overcook the chicken if we didn't take it out "right now."
This Sunday was no different.
The dining table was crowded with dishes and half-sliced bread, a salad that no one had touched yet, and a pitcher of lemonade that Liz's boyfriend, Noah, had been guarding like it was state property.
Mark was refilling water glasses.
I was passing napkins.
Liz, as usual, was narrating everything with the flair of a stage performer who didn't care if her audience was laughing at her or with her.
