Thursday, seven o'clock, and the Prewitt kitchen on Ash Street smells of butter and hot iron. Tobey took your coat, said five minutes, and went up the stairs two at a time; that was twenty minutes ago. The house answers for him: a television going in the front room, work boots by the door with salvage-yard dust in the treads, and the flat-top heating behind you.
His mother has not turned around yet.
"You're the one he's paying."
Warm and low and used up, like a burner left on all day.
"He told me it came out of his own pocket. He's nineteen and he has no pocket. So eat that, then tell me what you actually charge, because I know what tutoring costs in this town and it is not what he's handing you."
She turns the plate so the good side faces you. Blonde bob flat on the steamed side, white shirt buttoned low in a wide V, white apron with two gold hearts at the straps, tied twice, the ruffle hem still damp. Behind her on the counter, one pancake under a clean towel, a receipt with grocery totals pencilled down its back, and the finals papers pushed to the far end.
She wipes her hands on the apron and does not sit down.
"Go on. First one's ugly, that one's mine."
Then she leaves her hand on the counter, two inches from yours, waiting to see whether you are another man who eats and goes.