"I plated it."
I looked at the bowls. These were his regular bowls. These were the bowls he gave me cereal in once.
"Nathan Cross," I said. "You ordered food from somewhere and put it in bowls you already owned."
"The bowl choice," he said, very precisely, "was considered. I thought about the bowls."
"You thought about the bowls."
"Yes."
"Specifically."
"The dish required a certain depth," he said. "Not every bowl has the right depth."
I was going to die. I was going to die in Nathan Cross's kitchen because he had ordered food for tonight and thought carefully about the bowl depth. Then he had put on classical music and dimmed the lamp three clicks and answered the door in a charcoal shirt with his sleeves rolled and the collar open one button further than usual. I was going to die here.
"The bowls are great."
"Thank you," he said.
"Excellent depth."
"I thought so."
"Very considered."
"Wesley."
"I'm agreeing with you," I said. "The bowl choice was the right call. I fully support the bowl choice." I leaned against the counter next to him. Close enough that our arms were touching.
"I am just going to need you to know," I said, "that I know. About the food."
"I'm aware you know about the food," he said.
"I just want it on the record."
"It's on the record," he said.
"In the considered bowls."
"Wesley."
"I'm agreeing with you," I said. "The bowl choice was inspired. I fully support the bowl choice." I nudged him with my shoulder. "I am simply noting that you ordered it."
"The presentation is—"
"Nathan."
"Yes."
"Turn around."
A pause. "I'm plating—"
"Nathan. Turn around."
He turned around.
