by Amelia Foster
We ate Italian sandwiches on thick white bread. The mozzarella was not quite warm enough but still spit lines of grease into the creases of our palms. We let it collect there as we picked basil leaves from between our teeth. We let the oil stream until it reached our wrists, became too familiar, and we wiped our hands against paper napkins, embarrassed. We were with his parents that afternoon, and I saw the way their eyes monitored our meal. There was some talk of work and weather, but we soon settled into a silence.
Amelia Foster lives and works in Minnesota. She blogs here.