He goes back to his taco. I go back to mine. Behind us, cars pass. Between us, something has changed. We don’t talk about it, though. We don’t need to. I can recognize this moment for what it is: not an ending or a beginning, but simply a Tuesday in May when I took my brother for tacos and everything felt, for once, uncomplicated.
1: the fifth taste; a pleasant, savory, or meaty flavor that provides a sense of richness and depth to food.
2: a feeling of profound rightness; a flavor you never knew existed; the missing piece.
Bastian is waiting outside the church when Mom and I emerge into the cool May evening. He’s framed in the shrinking aperture of my vision, leaning against the Range Rover with his hands shoved in his pockets, backlit by the indigo sky.
I pause for a second and admir
