The mother breathed.
The flat, I-have-heard-this, present quality of a woman who had heard the sentence before and was filing the second hearing.
The daughter looked at him.
Her brown eyes.
The flat, wide, processing-everything, never-heard-a-sentence-like-that-in-my-life quality of brown eyes at close range.
"—I hope you taste good."
He looked at the daughter.
He reached up.
His hand found her hair — the flat, wet, dark, present, gathered-in-a-fist quality of a hand taking a hold — and he pulled.
Not violently.
The flat, deliberate, pulling-her-face-toward-his quality of someone who had decided the next action and was doing it.
Her face came up.
Their mouths met.
Not the warm, warm-water, warm-morning quality of the kiss he had given her mother in the forest — the flat, full, immediate, no-building-up, teeth-and-mouth, everything-at-once quality of a kiss that did not ask permission and did not take the building-up approach.
Her eyes.
They went somewhere.
