Thursday Evening

I hear the garage door.
He's home.

The children are loud and happy. They almost drown out the kitchen faucet on full as I'm finishing up the dishes. There are a few half-eaten, forgotten plates of food still on the dinner table.

 I can see him get out of the car through the window in the back door. He's fresh from a late evening on the job and a post-work grocery store run. I see those renegade plates and cross the way he'll come to gather the un-eaten broccoli, piling it atop a child's abandoned remains of dinner. I carry one small plate in each hand.

He meets me on my way back to the sink, just past the doorway, his hands full of strained grocery bags.

Our eyes meet.
He stares intently as I move toward him.
I smile.
He puts the groceries on the floor.

"These can wait. But this can't."

I'm hungrily kissed.
Both of his hands guide my face and body towards him. My hands try not to forget those broccoli-topped plates as I rise to participate in the kiss.

"I missed you."
"I love you."
"Welcome home."


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