“It’s aspirational,” I say. “In theory, fruit salad is a good life choice.”
He snorts. “You were the one who insisted we buy five kinds of melon.”
“Past Christa was optimistic,” I say. “Present Christa is tired and suspicious.”
He tilts his head, considering me like this is a negotiation he intends to win. “What if I made you a crumpet as well?”
I narrow my eyes. “With butter.”
“Yes.”
“Properly buttered.”
“Obviously.”
“And not that sad scraping where you can still see the holes.”
He holds up a hand. “I am not a monster.”
I pretend to think about it, even though my stomach has already made its position very clear.
“Alright,” I say. “But I’m only eating the fruit salad if the crumpet is hot.”
“Deal.”
“And, if I don’t finish it, you’re not allowed to comment.”
“I would never,” he says solemnly.
He heads for the kitchen and I sink back into the sofa, grinning despite myself. From the other room, I hear the familiar sounds of domestic effort. Fridge opening. Toaster clicking down. A muttered swear word when the butter turns out to be harder than anticipated.
This is ridiculous. We are negotiating snacks like this is a long-established routine.
He comes back balancing a plate and a bowl, triumphant.
“See,” he says, handing them over. “Balanced meal.”
I take a bite of the crumpet first. Obviously. Butter everywhere. Immediate satisfaction.
“Fine,” I concede, reaching for the fruit salad. “You win this round.”
He grins and drops back onto the sofa beside me, shoulder brushing mine.
I absolutely do not think about how normal this feels.
I eat my fruit. I eat my crumpet.
And I let him stay right where he is.
26
Award for Strongest Argument
Geoff
The last ten minutesof class, I ditch the slideshow on shutter speeds for something far more important.
I look at the faces staring at me. A roomful of teenagers who’ve spent the last month alternately testing my patience and reminding me why I love photography in the first place.
