Freezes.
Then—at a pitch I didn't know human vocal cords could produce—
"AAAAAHHHHH… WHERE? WHERE. ARE. THE. CLAWS?"
I look over her shoulder.
Three lobsters. Reddish-brown. Long, whip-like antennae. Smooth, clawless bodies.
"Uh," I say carefully. "Claws as in... Maine lobster?"
Jane whips around. "YES. Maine lobster. REAL lobster. I didn’t think there are other kinds. These have antennae." She gestures wildly at the creatures.
"These are decorative. These are what a lobster uses to gossip at cocktail parties. Where are the actual claws? The big ones? The ones that could open a letter? Or defend themselves in a bar fight?”
I press my lipstogether.
She lifts one of the spiny lobsters by its tail like it personally insulted her lineage.
"This is a sea centipede in cosplay. This is a shrimp on steroids."
I bite the inside of my cheek. Hard.
"Pretty sure that's just what lobster looks like in the Caribbean."
"NOT WHERE I'M FROM." She's spiraling now, holding the lobster at arm's length, examining it like a forensic investigator confronting contaminated evidence. "In Boston, lobster comes with weapons. With structural integrity. This is just... smooth. Why is it smooth? Why does it look aerodynamic?"
I'm trying. I am trying so hard not to laugh.
But she's standing in the kitchen, in a yellow dress, yelling at a lobster about its inadequate appendages, and I've never wanted to kiss someone more in my entire life.
I lean against the counter. Cross my arms.
“You know,” I say, leaning against the counter, “first time I went to Boston for a Bruins game, I tried to order a ‘regular coffee’ at Dunkin’.”
She glances at me, still holding the lobster by the tail like it’s on trial. “Okay?”
“I expected black. Straight coffee. Nothing complicated.”
“And?”
“I got handed something the color of drywall. Cream, sugar… possibly a dairy commitment.”
Her mouth twitches.
“I just stood there,” I continue. “Trying to figure out if I’d ordered wrong or if this was a test.”
“It’s a test,” she says immediately. “We don’t trust people who order black.”
“I took one sip and felt my molars vibrate.”
She laughs. Not polite. Real.
“And that,” I say, nodding toward the lobster, “is what’s happening to you.”
Jane's glaring at me. The lobster dangles from her fist like a sad, antennaed pendulum.
“You’re comparing my culinary standards to your lactose and sugar confusion.”
