I arrived at Charles Avenue to a dark house drawn closed for the night. I dug into my mother’s potted poppies on the front porch for the spare key. Brushed damp soil from the key’s crevices before inserting it into the slot and letting myself into the drafty first floor.
Music took shape in the form of my parents’ high-pitched voices echoing down the stairs from behind their closed bedroom door, my adolescent ears ringing.
Cringing at the embarrassment of my parents having s*x, I detoured into the kitchen for a glass of apple juice and clamped my eyes shut and held both hands over my ears as I passed the high ceiling arch under the staircase.
I navigated in the dark by the light of my iPhone, holding it out in front of me like a small pocket flashlight. Opening and shutting the refriger
