Javi's Cafe, 18.
Jerome and I were quiet the whole drive to his house. I had never seen where he lived, and it was surprising yet not entirely unexpected that he lived in a lower-income neighborhood. We stepped inside to a spotless and organized living room with minimal furnishings.
“Have a seat and make yourself at home,” Jerome said. “I’ll put on the kettle and get out some leftovers in a moment.”
I nodded and sat down across from a small bookshelf, tilting my head to read titles. Jerome passed through once or twice, and then to the left I heard the sounds of utensils on dishes.