it worse.
I took a clean paper towel, dampened it, and held it out.
She glanced from the towel to me.
“You’re not going to fix it?”
“I’m developing restraint.”
Her laugh filled the narrow sink area.
When she finally removed the smear, she looked at me through the mirror above the basin. There was something quieter in her face, something I could not have named without risking too much certainty.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said.
“About the clay?”
“About taking over.”
I leaned against the counter.
“I
