I fold my hands over his chest and prop my chin on top. When I stare at him for too long, he says, “What?”
“How old are you?”
That amuses him. His smile deepens, and his eyes dance with laughter. “Why do I get the feeling this is just the beginning of a long and arduous interrogation?”
“It’s called conversation. I ask questions, and you answer them.”
“No, that’s interrogation. In a conversation, the questions go back and forth.”
“You’ll get your chance. I’m going first.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
I reach up and touch his beard. It’s soft and springy under my fingertips, delightfully crisp. If he ever shaves it off, I’ll kill him.
“Why are you smiling?”
“Never mind. Back to my question about your age.”
“I’m thirty-three.” After a pause, he adds, “Your eyes just got big.”
“Yo
