“Yes,” she says, already standing. “Hold that thought.”
She disappears into the kitchen. I hear the fridge open, close, then the unmistakable rattle of a can being shaken with intent.
She comes back holding squirty cream like it’s a prize.
I stare at it. “That feels… symbolic.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Success. Resurrection. Dairy-based joy.”
“I feel like I should point out,” I say, “that this is not in any medical handbook.”
She sprays a neat swirl straight into her mouth, wipes her lip with her thumb, and grins at me.
“Congratulations,” she says. “You’re operational.”
I laugh and hold up both hands. “I’m going to pass.”
Her eyebrows lift. “On the cream.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because,” I say carefully, “that feelstoosymbolic. And I’ve just had a very personal victory. I don’t need to swallow a metaphor.”
She stares at me for a second.
Then she bursts out laughing.
“Well,” she says, meeting my gaze without blinking, “I’ll swallow yours then.”
Before I can form a response, she lifts the can and sprays another generous blob of cream straight into her mouth.
Slow. Deliberate. Completely unnecessary.
She closes her lips around it, eyes still locked on mine, then grins as she swallows.
Something low and traitorous shifts in my body.
I inhale sharply and immediately look away, like that might help. It doesn’t.
“Oh,” I mutter. “That is not fair.”
She raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“That,” I say, gesturing vaguely at her face, the can, the entire situation. “That feels like… dangerous.”
She laughs again, softer now, clearly pleased with herself. “I thought we were celebrating.”
“We were,” I say. “Abstractly. Emotionally. Not… visually.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “You alright there?”
I clear my throat. Shift my weight. Pretend nothing interesting is happening south of the conversation.
“Perfectly,” I lie. “Just… noticing things.”
“Such as?”
