Daniel is reading the paper and passing me each half-piece of toast, thinking we're sharing. I'm licking the cinnamon off each one and passing them back. He eats them. Hasn't taken his eyes off the paper or I don't think he realizes precisely what it is that I'm doing to his toast.
Schuyler notices.
Hungry?
Starving.
I can just make you some.
No, I'm good with this. Daniel, do you mind?
Never. (He has no idea what I'm asking.)
Clearly I married the wrong brother. (This gets his attention.)
You said that before about two brothers.
That was a mistake, Daniel. This time I know it's love.
Well, you know, there are other places we could put this stuff if you're in the licking mood.
You're gross.
As gross as Ben?
More gross.
Then you can rest easy with the choices you have made, Angelface.
Daniel?
Hmmm?
Can I have that last piece?
Take it. Jesus. I can't believe I ate wet Bridget-licked toast for breakfast.
Some would call you lucky.
Bring them to me. Let me see them for myself.
No, there are only imaginary men who love my toast cast-offs.
I could probably find some real ones.
Hush, you.
