They cooked supper loudly, aromas of onions and garlic spilling into the street. Marco sat in his car inhaling smells emanating from provisions he’d bought, sauted in his pans, yet eaten by others. Laughter rolled through windows, and silverware clinked. The house glowed as though welcoming someone. He was left outside.
His uncle texted smugly: “Everything secure tonight. We’ll brief counsel tomorrow. Sleep well.” Marco gripped his phone until the plastic groaned. He typed responses, deleted them, typed again. Sleep well, in his house, while he paced the pavement. Even the cat seemed to ignore him, tail flicking behind the curtained windowpane upstairs.