Table Turning

"She is like us, Papa. Like you, and me, and Grandpa," Hunter said to his father.

The words hung in the air, punctuated by the clatter of silverware against porcelain.

Silverio blinked twice, slowly. He turned to his wife: Lavinia met his eyes for a moment and then fixed her gaze down at the fork in the middle of her plate. Then he set his eyes on his son. He smiled at Hunter obligingly, the way one smiles when a well-meaning guest tells a boring story over wine and cheese. He returned to slicing his steak, almost nonchalant, as though he had heard something only vaguely interesting.

"Is she now?" Silverio asked without looking up from his plate.

"She is," Hunter answered, his gaze never leaving his father's face. His own plate was still untouched. He continued to hold Ash's hand under the table.

Silverio chewed carefully on a piece of steak. He took a sip of water. He set the glass down and placed both of his hands on the table, palms flat.

"And how is she the same as you, me, and yo