Sam finishes a glass of water in the living room, sitting near my pillow. He waves his hands at the glass a few times, expecting something like a weirdo.
The bag of crackers sits on the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet. A snack, I guess. I can never reach that high. My clumsy arms and clumsy fingers stretch upwards and don't reach. I'm all mixed together. I hop with my clumsy knees and knock the bag down, into my hands. I listen to myself, and then I know that Sam is also in the room.
No no no I'm quite all right, Sam.
I grab the top seam and pull. It doesn't open. I need scissors.
I can do this, Sam.
I hold the bag with both hands and yank in opposite directions. It doesn't open.
No, Sam. I don't need help. Don't worry.
I go to put the bag back.
Sam is behind me. He's tall and—
He snatches the bag, chews on the seam.
I ask him if he needs scissors.
He closes his teeth and flings his head backward. Open. He takes a cracker before giving the bag back to me.
I don't say thanks. I just clean up the mess as the crackers spill onto the floor. When I look back up, Sam throws soggy cracker crumbs into his mouth. I don't ask.