She holds her steak knife in a closed fist, sawing at the meat. Pink juice floods her plate. She forks a chunk into her mouth, and her eyes flutter as she chews. I can hear it from here, the click of her jaw, her back molars grinding. She gulps, and I can see the food travel down her throat, the expansion of her skin as it goes. Molly kicks me under the table again, but she’s not looking at Julie. She’s looking at me. I don’t know what she’s trying to tell me. I ignore her.
