He’s watching me, fingers idly turning the mug of tea. With the kitchen smelling strongly of peppermint, my beer no longer sounds appealing. Feeling daring, I lean forward and hook a finger through the handle of his mug, pulling it toward me. It slips through his fingers, and I maintain eye contact as I bring it to my lips and take a sip. When I place the mug back on the table between us, he snatches another fry off of my plate. He looks less pissed off now; more relaxed. It’s a much better look on him—I can only imagine what he’d look like if he actually smiled.
