He opens all three plastic cups of cream and pours them in in a spiraling circle. He blows the white whorl into a tawny blend before he takes a cautious sip. He has nothing special on his mind, does no deep thinking; he is merely between home and a place where he’s been.
I must have made a million changes and yet this is still draft number one. I love editing. Almost as much as I love writing.
From the scent of my husband's morning toast comes a man with a history he tried to forget. But that one routine in a diner, where he's unprepared with his guard, the past comes back in the face of the chrome toaster, the pain as real as the past.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology