I Asked If I Could Eat With Him While He Reached Toward His Jacket Pocket...

The spaghetti was too hot at first and I burned my tongue. I didn't stop. I twirled it wrong and it slipped off the fork and landed back on the plate, and sauce got on my thumb. I wiped it on my hoodie without thinking. The milk was in a small glass, warm the way he asked, with a little skin on top. I pushed that part to the side with my finger.

He didn't eat. His own plate was still there, the steak getting cold, the spaghetti getting soft. He just watched me. Not the way people stare. His hands were flat on the white tablecloth, one near his water glass, the gold ring catching the light when he moved.

Behind us, I could hear plates clinking and a man laughing too loud by the windows. Rain was still hitting the glass. It sounded far away.

Then he said it quiet, like he didn't want anyone else to hear.

"Where is your family?"

My fork stopped halfway to my mouth. A noodle hung down and dropped. I looked at the broccoli on my plate because I didn't want to look at him. The broccoli was bright green and cut too big. Grandpa would have cut it smaller.

I tried to swallow what I already had in my mouth. It felt stuck.

"My dad died," I said.

I heard my own voice and it sounded small. I kept my eyes on the plate.

"My mom is gone and grandpa died last week."

I said it just like that, all in one line, because if I stopped in the middle I wouldn't finish. My chest felt tight. I picked up the zipper of my hoodie with my left hand and held it hard. The metal was cold.

He didn't say anything right away. He didn't do the thing grown-ups do where they say oh honey or tilt their head. He just breathed in through his nose, real slow. I could see his shoulders go up and then down.

The restaurant noise dropped. Or maybe I just stopped hearing it. The laughing man by the window got quiet. The clinking stopped. All I heard was the rain and my own chewing when I tried to take another bite and couldn't.

I forced myself to look up at him.

His blue eyes weren't looking at my dirty face anymore. They were looking at my hand holding the zipper, then at my bare feet under the table. I tucked them back under the chair. The floor was cold through my skin.

He opened his mouth, then closed it. He nodded once, like he was making sure he got it right. Dad. Mom. Grandpa. I counted them in my head after I said it and wished I hadn't said it that fast. It sounded like a list. They weren't a list.

"You haven't eaten since Friday," he said. It wasn't a question.

I shook my head. I didn't say what day it was now because I didn't know. The rain had been there for a long time. I remembered Friday because that was the bread. Grandpa gave me half his toast on Friday morning. After that, nothing.

He leaned back a little in his chair. His right hand lifted off the table. I watched it because I watch hands. Grandpa told me to watch hands.

His hand went toward his jacket, near the inside pocket. Not fast. Just steady, like he knew exactly what was there. His fingers touched the edge of the jacket and then stopped.

My whole body froze. I forgot about the fork. I gripped the zipper tighter until it hurt my fingers. The spaghetti steam was still coming up in my face and I didn't move away from it.

He saw me watching his hand. I know he did because his eyes flicked down to where I was looking. His hand didn't go in the pocket. It just stayed there, hovering, then lowered back down to the table.

I didn't breathe. I thought about the door behind me. I thought about how my feet would be wet if I ran outside and how the sidewalk would feel. I thought about Friday and how hungry I'd been walking here and how I told myself I wouldn't mess this up.