You were all timid when you knocked on your grandmother's front door like you didn't believe your plan would work.
But then she opened the front door wearing fuzzy, cloudy pajamas because it was like five in the morning, and you smiled. You smiled like everything was going according to your plan.
Suddenly, you looked less like a runaway kid and more like Valery Robert. Beautiful and oblivious.
Your grandmother returned your smile and ushered us inside. She seated us at her breakfast table.
I remembered how we were stranded at that motel and how we were forced to eat your buttered popcorn for dinner.
Grandmother Audrey made French toast with syrup that glistened as if it belonged somewhere within my mouth.
I was so hungry.
You explained to her why we were here while we stuffed our mouths until we were made of greasy fingers and the taste of homemade syrup.
"The both of you must be exhausted," she guessed. She took our plates and placed them in the sink. "Why don't you go upstairs and rest."
Your grandmother was cool. And she understood you surprisingly well, too.
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