“Only the scared scowl,” she said, bending down to pull the pie from the oven.
The scent of boiled blueberries filled the small kitchen. Her fingers pushed at the crust, and when a flake came away, stuck to her skin, she put it to her mouth and licked. I wanted to ask why, but now that the pie cooled on the heavy cutting board set level across the two leftmost elements, it didn’t matter.
She sat at the table, across from me, and made to speak, but didn’t. Instead she leaned back and smiled, waiting, until I did the same.