Fiction — The MagicLand Chronicles
It’s her kitchen. She can do what she wants.
Scarlett’s an old Black lady who ain’t never worn a stitch of red clothing in her life, far as I know. She don’t even like that color. Red.
I know this because I’m her husband. I’m an old white man, Scarlett’s age, been with her these fifty-five years now. When people ask, we like to joke that we are both about eighty years old but we ain’t sure. We is sure, but we like to say we ain’t.