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Summary
“Hey, you know how band-aids were invented?” Reki asks, smoothing the bandage down and Langa wonders if he can feel how flushed and hot his face is, if he knows.
Langa shakes his head.
“Some old dude made ‘em for his wife,” Reki continues “Guess she was super clumsy in the kitchen - like you - so she cut herself a bunch.”
“I’m not clumsy,” Langa says petulantly.
Reki levels him with a look, then. “Yeah? Then what’re we calling that time you tripped over the curb and ran face-first into a telephone pole? Interpretive dance?”
Langa frowns. He’d tripped over that curb because Reki was talking about a new idea for a deck, something about painting the surface and then cutting designs into the grip tape so you could see the colors shine through and Langa was focused on the way Reki’s scratched and bandaged hands were flitting about as he spoke, alive like the butterflies surging in Langa’s stomach and he hadn’t seen the curb until it was too late because his eyes were too full of Reki to notice anything else.
Maybe he’s not managing this as well as he thought.