She could feel her pulse in her fingertips as she picked up her bowl. She felt his eyes on her as she lifted it over her head, brought it down, smashing it onto the tiled floor. Shards of ceramic and congealed oats sprayed across the kitchen. Kit drew his feet up onto his chair. They both looked at the floor, and in the quiet she felt the rawness of her throat, the pounding of her head. She walked upstairs. “Very mature,” he called after her.
