“It is for you.”
That lands.
The café continues around us. Cups clink. A chair scrapes near the window. Someone laughs at the counter. Damien does not look away from me.
He says, “Explain.”
I pick up the water glass, then set it down without drinking.
“Your best plates don’t ask to be understood. They make understanding happen after the bite. The lamb was closer to persuasion. It wanted me to know how serious it was.”
His hand stills beside the espresso cup.
“You are calling the dish insecure.”
“I am saying the dish became aware of its own darkness.”
For a second, he says nothing.
Then he laughs once, low and unwilling.
“That’s infuriating.”
“Because I am wrong?”
“No,” he says. “Because you are not entirely wrong.”
I shouldn’t enjoy that, but I do.
He notices and points one finger at me.
“Do not look so pleased.”
“I am only respecting your honesty.”
“You are enjoying my suffering.”
“It can be both,” I say.
His eyes warm, and the shift is small enough that it should not affect me, but it does.
He leans forward again. “The cheese course.”
“Exceptional,” I say.
“Too easy.”
“It was not easy. It was clear.”
“Clear can be safe.”
“Not the way you used it,” I say.
“The fruit could have softened the whole thing, but it did not. The herbs kept the plate from becoming sentimental.”
He studies me. “You noticed the herbs.”
“I noticed everything.”
