“I won,” said Chelsea’s dad, and went to give Chelsea a high-five, but missed, as they were standing too close. “My fault,” he said. “That was my fault.” “Oh,” Chelsea said. And he stepped back a little and tried again, but Chelsea, distracted now by something—maybe the plant in the far corner, standing and waiting like a person in a dream; or maybe the green shoe or some other thing that was out there and longing, to be looked at, and taken—wasn’t ready, and their hands, his then hers, passed through the air in a kind of wave, a little goodbye.”
Book:Bed
