Page 26 of Falling in Love with A Tiny Bat

So I cut both quesadillas in half and make them all nice and fair, then I toss the meat and veggies on the side of two plates, nudge one Alexios’s way, and take my first cheesy bite.

Alexios stares down at the food, smile faltering.

“Made warm with hate,” I provide. “Forks are in that drawer if you don’t want to eat with your hands…given the gloves.”

His gaze jets to the silverware drawer I designate, then he seems to take a fortifying breath as he retrieves a utensil.

The process from that point, at least from where I’m standing, appears akin to surgery.

He separates the meat from the broccoli. He opens and prods at both quesadilla halves. He scrunches his nose at the pooling oil, then segregates it as best he can on the other side of his plate. I’m almost done with my unburnt quesadilla before he takes his first bite.

He chews.

And keeps chewing.

He chews so long I’m almost convinced Pollux taught him to count to one hundred for every bite.

I could literally never.

I would starve.

Lifting the burnt slice next, he takes another bite and begins his chewing stamina test again. When he swallows this time, he says, “May I trade you for the other browner one? I find the texture more bearable.”

My attention drops to the burnt piece in my hand. I have just finished taking a bite out of it. “You like the burnt one better?”

“Likeis a strong word, but, yes, I suppose let’s go with it.” He approaches, offering his plate. With utmost propriety, he flicks the lesser cheese tortilla onto my plate.

I give him mine.

He stares at the bite mark.

“You know, if you don’t like what I made for breakfast, you’re welcome to make something else. I can eat all of this no problem. But, also, I will be judging you. Harshly. This is child menu food. Everyone is supposed to like it. And I’m just not so sure how we’re going to work out if you only like vegetables and whole grains or whatever it is Perfect Papa Pollux has provided you with.” I cock my head. “I’ve seen the extravagance of the lunches he sometimes sends to school with your sister. I have bitten accidentally into a gluten free oatmeal raisin cookie, expecting chocolate chip and, I don’t know,flour. Your taste buds are probably effed up so bad. I’msooosorry this isn’torganic.”

“Hush,” Alexios whispers into my rant.

Something pricks in my chest, but I ignore it, and his littlecommand. “Don’t you dare tell me to be quiet in my own home, Alexios. I will not hesitate to manage another night as a single mother. I can do a great deal on my own, so don’t test me.”

Scowling, he glares. “You are an utterly insensitive thought-repellent.”

I smirk. “You’re getting better at compliments, sweetheart. What do you need to think about? Your choices are: eat or make something else. It’s not rocket science. You can even flip a coin.”

“If youmustknow what I need to think about, I am considering the fact you have just given me food that your mouth has touched.”

“Oh.” I bite into the part of his quesadilla that his mouth touched without lifting my gaze off him. “That’s a fair concern. I do work with kids, so I am usually a carrier of unspeakable diseases. Even though I’ve been off for a week, I can accept the duress. I won’t be offended if you cut my germs off.”

His throat bobs. He stares at my mouth, at the food that was his, at my mouth. Near strangled, he says, “I…wasn’t at all thinking about…germs.”

“Were you thinking about poison? It’s impolite to poison people. Are you calling meimpolite?”

Tension eases out of him as he fixes me with a placating smile. “Were you to poison me, I am quite near positive I would enjoy the experience.”

“Yet again—I feel almost compelled to ask—you good, bro?”

“Perhaps never better.”

If I know myfaerie loopholes around lying, “perhaps” is an eraser word that makes most sentences lose all meaning. It creates truth with itsmaybe, maybe notenergy.

It’s a Schrodinger word, along withpossiblyandpotentiallyandprobably. At the moment in time any of these words are used, truth is both alive—and dead.

---