Noel slid the plate of sandwiches across the table.
It landed in front of Arthur cleanly. He picked up his own plate, turned, and headed for the door.
He was two steps from it when he heard the crash.
He turned.
The plate was on the floor. The sandwich — bread, beef, cheese, butter, assembled with reasonable care — was face down on the kitchen tiles. Arthur was sitting back in his chair with the expression of a man who had done something deliberately and was not remotely sorry about it.
Noel stared at the floor.
Then at Arthur.
"What did you do?" he said.
"I don't like butter in my bread," Arthur said. He leaned back further, settling into the chair like a man with all the time in the world. "Redo it."
"I don't have time to—"
Arthur stood up.
He did it slowly — carefully, compensating for the arm. He was broad-shouldered and was looking at Noel.
Noel stepped back.
His back met the kitchen door.
