He paused, the spoon hovering over the pot, and quickly pulled his sleeve down.
“It is nothing,” he said, not looking at me. “Just some dry-erase marker from the presentation this afternoon.”
“I did not know you used green markers for the quarterly reviews,” I said.
“We had to color-code the new budget projections,” he said, his voice steady as he began stirring the soup again.
He kept his hand low, his wrist tucked close to his side as he guided the ladle into the first bowl.
I watched the green smudge disappear beneath the dark fabric of his sleeve, the color too vibrant, too thick to be the ink of an office whiteboard.
It looked like the tempera paint we used to keep in plastic tubs when I volunteered during my college days.
“You should wash your hands before we eat,” I said, setting the spoons beside the bowls.
“I will be right back,” he said, stepping out of the kitchen toward the downstairs bathroom.
