I sat in the café eating the food I once hated without thinking about it. The roar of a streetcar that once made me jump went by unnoticed.
The two letters lay open on the table. The illegible tear-soften words of the one were long memorized while the crisp newly inked words of the other still held surprises.
The waitress came over. Her once foreign words asking if I was finished were now in my tongue, which I used to answer.
I watched out the window.
Sunday was New Year’s Day.
Monday, after a year’s exile, I was going home.
word count = 100