Son bustles around the house, organizing his work shit. I work quietly at the counter, aware of his manic energy only in my peripheral vision. I sense his approach.
“Mom.”
I look up.
“Yes?”
He holds up a pile of jumbled black wires and plugs.
“Is there somewhere in the house where we store outdated wires and cords?”
“Sure,” I said. I rise from my stool, take the proffered wires and deposit them abruptly into the trash.
He looks at the wires in the trash, then back at me. I hold his gaze.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”