Fiction
A Given Dayby TJ Staneart
Frank’s least favorite part, by far, of buying a home: this strange, pervasive social contract insisting the space in his house would be used the same way as in the neighbor’s house, and the house next to that. On and On. If he let himself think about it long enough, he got depressed. He also hated the words “open concept.” Maybe that was his least favorite part.
But these things didn’t bug his wife. Not one bit.
Behind him, through the once and future dining room, in the kitchen, she placed her palms on the cool, smooth surface of a granite countertop. She took a deep, satisfied breath. Like she was touching a religious relic.
“I love,” she began, “this kitchen.”
“I know, right,” said the real estate agent. His name was Greg. Frank and Maggie had me
