“What’s even what?” he said as he sank his fork into her piece of pie. She grabbed for his fork, and he grabbed for hers, and they giggled, and he pushed into her with his hip, and she pushed back, and the forks clicked each other a few times, and he held her hands down and picked up his fork and slowly brought the end of it, loaded with a glistening piece of pecan pie, closer to her mouth.
She looked up at him and opened her mouth, and her tongue cradled the sweetness, and she slowly closed her lips around the fork as he pulled it out. She chewed the pecans slowly and deliberately, savoring the luscious taste, watching him, and he watched her as he slid his fork into the pie, broke away another piece, and brought the piece to his own open mouth.
She watched him chew it...
He pushed the button, listened to silence for a few seconds, and said, “Terin?”
“Jack.” It was her.
“Terin! Where are you? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Jack.”
The sanitized evenness of the way she said those three words stopped his breath for a moment. A child shrieked near him, either from delight or fear; he couldn’t tell which. He continued, tenderly, tentatively, unsettled: “You’re fine?”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m...” She did not finish.
“Are you home?”
“Well, where are you?”
“I want to meet you.” Her voice was scrubbed clean of emotion.