[for a moment, francel seems spellbound as he forgets to answer, and instead concentrates merely on watching zephirin eat — the sandwich touches his lips, then disappears behind them, the muscles in his jaw and neck tensing, flexing, moving —

he reminds himself that he has been asked a question. he stirs, as if from a reverie; already, he has forgotten the question. he blanks. he bluffs.]

Oh, um... They're good. I'm good. I mean — er —

[nothing of what he just said was coherent.]

I... promise you won't laugh? I make lunch every day because I'm afraid to talk to the school cafeteria workers...