Aissa tells Blain about the gunner, in hushed tones by the sink so Trin doesn’t overhear. He concentrates on chopping an onion and tries to convince himself that the stinging in his eyes is from the pungent smell, nothing more. He wants to believe this afternoon didn’t happen—Aissa bothering him, the gunner’s proposition, his own anger, none of it seems real. Every now and then Blain looks over, tries to catch his eye, but Trin keeps his head down. He doesn’t want to meet his brother’s gaze.
After the onion is reduced to a small stack of rings, he slathers mayonnaise on a few slices of bread. Adds tomatoes, lettuce, some kind of white meat that might be chicken, might not. Adds the onions, his eyes watering. Not from tears, though. He’s not crying over this.
He makes two sandwiches and c
