The tray is set out without ceremony, and still it draws them in. When it’s their turn, they step forward a touch too quickly, then slow themselves, wiping their fingers along their sleeve as if that might steady them. The vertebrae lie spaced across the dark cloth, each one turned just enough to show a different face. They bend over the table, one hand braced against the edge, the other hovering, pausing, shifting, unable to settle. They take one. Too fast. It comes up clean, sits neatly in the palm, the curve fitting without resistance. For a moment they almost close their hand around it, almost step back with it. “Yes—” slips out, half-formed, before stopping short. The bone gives nothing back. No pull, no imbalance, no reason to keep holding it. Their grip tightens anyway, as if pressure might force it into place, then releases just as quickly. They set it down harder than needed, not where it was, fingers lingering a second too long before pulling away. Their hand stays over the tray. It moves slower now, not searching so much as avoiding, passing over pieces without letting the fingers land. One catches at the edge of their focus again and again — slightly tilted, the ridge uneven, the hollow darker than the rest. They hover above it, hesitate, then press their thumb lightly against its edge as if to test whether it will give. “Fine,” they say, quieter this time, and take it before the thought can change. It shifts as soon as it’s lifted, dragging the hand off balance, forcing the fingers to adjust around it. The grip never quite settles. They straighten with it anyway, holding it a fraction tighter than is comfortable, and do not look back at what remains on the tray.
