By Jessica Bell
The note on the kitchen counter says, “Meet me in the parking lot.”
I live alone. Have done so for twenty years.
It looks like my brother’s handwriting.
Twenty years ago we had a falling out. We haven’t spoken since. I’ve been thinking about calling him. Touching base, once and for all. Just to say, “Sorry,” really. That’s all. “Sorry.”
I look out my kitchen window, into the parking lot behind my building.
There is a car. My car. The one my brother stole from me the last day I saw him. I guess he’s been thinking the same thing as me.
He’d never been good with words.