"Jonah," his mother said.
"Yes, Mom."
"You're back. How was your day?"
Jonah walked to the old brass bed and sat next to her feet. The sheets were thin and they weren't crisp, but they were very white.
"How was your day?" he asked.
"Don't ask me about my day." She pointed out the window, over the lawn, at the sidewalk. "I watched people. I thought. Tell me about your day." She leaned forward and wiped milk off his lip. She held his hand in the two of hers.
Jonah told her.
He told her about how he managed to hit all the green lights on the way to school, how it was cool in the morning with the wind in his hair, about the dead squirrel he dragged off the road so it wouldn't get squashed. He told her about his ride to work, about the man who ran out of the deli without paying for his sandwich, about the cop putting a ticket on the red Volkswagen outside the big clear windows. Her eyes fixed on his face as he spoke and he smiled at her and rubbed the sheets between his fingers and tried to remember everything. The day solidified in his mind, growing firm, important, and worthwhile as he spoke.
She always said details were her brainfood. She didn't watch TV. She said she had too many good things to think about to waste her time watching fantasy. She did watch his shows with him, but he knew it was for his company more than for entertainment.
He told her about his teacher's moods, the homework he had to do. He told her how he almost fell asleep in Econ, how he took the short-cut through the orchard on the way home, the way the sun flickered through the branches over his head, the way Mary smiled at him today. But he didn't tell her about the boyfriend.
She said she saw him through the window when he walked up the path. He was frowning. Why? Jonah said he didn't remember why. He didn't want to say why.