I come in and he's washing dishes again. I frown. That's my job, Jake. You don't need to do those.
I want to, Pigalet.
Okay but when you wind up with dishpan hands you're not touching me.
I let you touch me with your hands.
I wear gloves when I wash pots. But that's not a fair comparison because your hand is so big it covers my whole face. You wouldn't feel mine the same way.
He smiles sadly and then I abruptly realize I have conjured up one of the most bittersweet memories we have.
Sorry, I tell him.
He shakes his head. It's okay, Pigalet. I'm just killing time while you kill everything else.
