Do you believe in Jesus?

What?

Jesus.

He didn't say anything here.

The Jesus candle.

He didn't say anything here.

I pointed to the Jesus candle on the fireplace mantle.

That's not a Jesus candle. A Jesus candle would insinuate Jesus made it, or the candle was modeled after what Jesus might have looked like.

There is a picture of Jesus on it.

It's not a picture, it's a drawing, a bad one at that.

Okay. Do you believe in Jesus because you have a candle with a vulgar drawing of Jesus on it?

He didn't say anything here.

We had been sitting at his dinner table for a long time. I'm not exactly sure how long, maybe forty eight minutes or maybe three hours or maybe fifteen days. He took another fork full of the quinoa. I hated the way he let his fork hit the plate and run against it as he shoveled for food. The same way I couldn't stand when people didn't part their lips when extracting the fork from their mouth. Actually I've never seen this happen but someone told me their mother did it. I'd hate it, the way I hated this.

I grabbed his plate and stacked it on top of mine before he had a chance to put down his fork. I put his dish on top of mine because mine had no food on it and his still had about eight more mouthfuls, not for any other reason. Okay, maybe because I loved him and thought his dish deserved to be the one closest to me.

The fork was still in his mouth when he looked up at me. I didn't see him look up but sort of did, they way you can see what's happening in front of you even when you're looking down.