Right After

I told the story. It cost something—

real cost, the kind that marks.

Four seconds. Then the bread basket.

A hand across the dark

space where it had been sitting.

Someone asked for salt.

The conversation resealed itself.

I watched it close the vault

and didn't add another word.

Cut my food. Poured more.

Smiled when required. Drove home.

Sat in the car. The score

not settled.

Just the basket.

Just the hand.