Turning my back to face him, I saw him standing by the kitchen doorway. He still wore that same grey T-shirt and dark blue straight-leg pants when we went to my therapy, while I was in my yoga outfit with black leggings and a top.
“You want to eat? The food’s on the fridge,” I simply stated.
“Why are you washing the dishes?” he asked, his eyes darting from the broken glass on the ground, then to me who was holding a towel in my hand. “Johnson,” he roared before I could answer.
His booming voice echoed from the dining room to the large hall, disturbing the quiet, peaceful night.
Not wanting to argue with him, I leaned back to the sink as Johnson’s hurried footsteps from the hall sounded louder as he neared.
“Yes, boss,” he panted.
“Who’s assigned to wash the dishes tonight?” The aut
