All I can do is stare at the pimple above his right eyebrow. It makes my toes curl. He’s laying on his pillow, mouth slightly open. That same face he makes when he rearranges the objects on the coffee table. Stacking the yellow coasters. Tilting the little bronze seashell. I stop looking at the pimple and stare at the wet paper towel textured ceiling I remember the time we visited my mom and I overheard her whisper in his ear “You’re good for my daughter.” And I wonder is good enough?