"Why?"
The short version takes two minutes. Three years ago: a landlord trying to squeeze a family out of their building, a permit suddenly pulled that had held for twenty years. Paperwork on the surface, shakedown underneath. A son who'd made a mistake about to cost him far more than one mistake should cost a person. I knew someone at the zoning office. I knew someone else. The permit was reinstated. The landlord found his pressure removed from a different direction.
"The favor cost me an afternoon," I finish, "and some goodwill I had to spend carefully."
She's quiet for a moment.
"And you spent that on a restaurant."
"I spent it on a permit." A pause. "The restaurant is incidental."
She looks at me with the expression that means she's filed something away and I'm not going to find out what. I let her file it.
I think briefly about the bait threads I've been running — three of them, each routing different false information to different access points. The Zayas made contact with the dock worker again two days ago; Gunner flagged it and I told him to hold. Something is moving out there, patient and circling. I've been letting it circle.
The food will arrive in an hour. The threads can hold an hour more.
She pulls the sketchbook from her bag while we wait I watch her without pretending I'm not — her eyes narrowing when she concentrates, the pencil moving in confident lines. Her hand andbrain are working in perfect, secret coordination. I shift position on the couch. She angles the book away without looking up.
I reach for it.
She pulls it back. "When it's done."
"Or never. You said."
"I haven't decided yet."
"I could just take it."
She looks at me over the edge of the notebook. "You already know what happens when you take my sketchbook."
"I end up looking at myself."
"Looking at yourselfvulnerable," she corrects. She goes back to drawing.
"Can you do me from the front?" I ask.
She laughs.
The sound is surprised out of her, bright and sudden. It catches me off guard, which almost nothing does. I look at her face while she laughs and commit it to the list of things I intend to keep.
When it fades she looks at me, slightly startled by herself. Something passes between us. She goes back to the page, and I let her, and the ease between us is real and slightly terrifying.
The food arrives exactly when it should.
The smell comes through the bag before I've opened it — sofrito and garlic, the deep earthiness of black beans long-cooked, something sweet underneath from the platanos. She's already at the counter when I get to the kitchen, lifting the lid of one container and leaning in close.
I push her gooey turkey bagel toward her, but she can’t stop looking at my dish.
"Ropa vieja," I say.
"What's in it?"
"Shredded beef. Tomatoes, peppers, onion. Whatever the grandmother decides that day."
She reaches for a fork and takes a bite directly from the container, still standing at the counter. Her eyes close for a moment, involuntary. I watch it happen. I could watch this for a long time.
We take the containers to the coffee table. We eat without ceremony. She reaches for the plantains and black beans. I take a bite of her bagel. Outside, the bay holds the late morning light in flat silver sheets.
