She glances at me. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“No,” she says. “You sound pleased.”
I should deny it, but I don’t. The vendor at the stall gives me three crates to inspect. I reject the first without touching it.
Serena says, “Too uniform.”
“Yes.”
“Grown for beauty, not eating.”
“Usually.”
She picks up one from the second crate and turns it in her hand.
“This one has better weight.”
“It does.”
“But you are not taking it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
I step closer and point to the stem. “Smell there.”
She does.
A second passes.
Then she says, “It is tired.”
“It is,” I say.
Her eyes lift to mine, sharp and bright in the market light.
“That’s annoying.”
“What is?”
“That you’re right.”
“I’ve been told it is one of my worst qualities.”
“It is high on the list.”
I smile despite myself. We continue. Mireille sells me tarragon and says nothing about Serena until Serena corrects me on the basil.
“The back row is better,” Serena says.
I look at the basil in my hand. “This is perfectly good.”
“That is a terrible sentence from a man who just rejected tomatoes for fatigue.”
Mireille barks out a laugh as I put the basil back and reach for the back row. Serena looks unbearably satisfied.
