The Plate He Chose

He stopped.

“Put it back.”

He looked at me for a second, then smiled without showing his teeth.

“After dinner,” he said, and walked on.

I did not ask again.

Not yet.

In the kitchen he set the folder beside the breadbox instead of returning it to the sideboard, poured water into my glass and Noah’s, and left his own glass empty.

He leaned against the counter and watched me chew, and when I put my fork down and asked, again, whether he was going to eat, he told me, again, in a minute.He leaned against the counter and watched me chew, and when I put my fork down and asked, again, whether he was going to eat, he told me, again, in a minute.