We slid into the booth a Boulevard Cafe, a coney island joint on W. Grand, wiped out after a long weekend of househunting and a late night drinking moonshine (I travel prepared) and talking Detroit with our airbnb hosts and another traveler. We’d just handed over a money order as a deposit on a burned out house down the street, a house we had big dreams for and my hands shook a little as I looked over the big menu.
“Are you drinking something?” asked the waitress who popped out of nowhere. I laughed, startled and looked at my husband. After 17 years together I can tell when we’re both going to lose it with laughter so I tried to keep a straight face. Are we drinking something? Maybe something that gives us the idea to pour all our money into a dream of Detroit.
The house we tried to buy that day didn’t work (that’s the second time we’ve come *this* close only to miss out) but we haven’t given up. Yep, we’re probably drinking something, but I’m glad we’re drinking it together.