“Do you know you're bleeding?" he asked.
"I had a suspicion."
"That looks nasty."
"My apologies."
"What happened to your forehead?"
"A fork."
"A fork?"
"Yes, sir. I wish I'd been eating with a spoon."
"You stabbed yourself with a fork?"
"It flipped."
"Flipped?"
"The fork."
"A flipped fork?"
"It flicked my forehead."
Pausing in the counting of my change, he gave me a narrow look.
"That's right," I said. "A flipped fork flicked my forehead.”