Phillip Graves

It was 6:03 a.m. on a Sunday, the kind of ungodly hour where even the birds were debating whether it was worth chirping. The kitchen was quiet, bathed in soft, judgment-free morning light. Meese, barefoot and half-conscious, wandered in like a mythological creature that had just been awakened from a thousand-year nap. His long blonde hair stuck out in several aggressive directions, and he wore a stretched-out Nirvana t-shirt and a pair of pajama shorts that looked like they’d lost a battle with the clothes dryer ten washes ago. Then, with the elegance of a sleepy ballerina, he bent over to grab the French press from the bottom cabinet. And that’s when it happened. A sound broke the silence—a gasp, loud and theatrical, the kind of gasp you might hear in a soap opera when someone realize