After a few more moments of silence, the sound of the storyteller’s voice in the distance makes the children giggle, and I smile in the direction of the commotion.
“Look, I’m sorry about Friday.” Edward says suddenly. I guess he likes to cut to the chase.
I turn to find him looking down, tracing the grain of the wooden tabletop. I’m momentarily mesmerized by the length and elegance of his fingers, the veins appearing and disappearing with each movement.
“You have nothing to apologize for. I’m the one with the word vomit, remember?” I reply, my voice small and foreign as I continue to stare at his fingers.
Those fingers were excellent that night. I can only imagine what else they’re good at.
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