In the window his reflection grimaced and I wished I hadn’t asked. “Forget it,” I told him, pulling away. “I don’t think I really want to know.”
I left the kitchen. Lee’s mother was in the living room now. I could hear her riffling through our DVDs, our tapes, the framed pictures displayed on top of the entertainment center. I picked up her empty soup bowl and the remainder of our dinnerware and carried it to the kitchen.
Lee was filling the sink with hot, soapy water, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He took the bowl from me. “I’m sorry, Curt. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. We can cut this visit short, if you want.”