Motel View Page 19
After several more skips I drop the fish slice—catching that with my knees and jumping so it flips in a simple arc into the dishwater—and catch the glass on the back of my elbow. I roll it up my arm and across my shoulders onto the other elbow and back again. By now it's dry.
Leaning over with the same small smile, Jane plucks it off and puts it up into the cupboard where we keep the mugs and cups. It sits there with all the others, proud as a parrot, proud as a parent hearing they have made it to the next generation.
Jane fixes me with a narrow eye.
Very clever, she says.
But it's not clever. It's magic.