10.3

I glanced at the open-face sandwich between us. She had put it down with the lettuce, the tomato, onion, pickle, cheese, all face-down on the plate with the bread covering, protecting it. She wiped her fingers so carefully and said something that should make me laugh, but I was too stressed out. She picked the sandwich up again and held it with the lettuce cradling the fragile construction above. And then—as she pulled her mouth away—the lettuce ripped clean away and the sandwich tumbled piece-wise to the plate below.
"Oh!" she said. Using the fork, she scraped her sandwich together on the plate and abandoned the bread, now eating an open-faced salad with mustard for dressing.
I stood up.
"The restroom—" she paused, swallowed, and pointed. "Have Gavin show you where it is."
I did not need a restroom. I needed an escape.