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“Because of that?”
“No. You chose the lamp.”
“I did?”
“At an estate sale. You argued with an old woman for twenty minutes over the price.”
“Did I win?”
“She charged you more.”
Noah grinned.
“What do you hate?”
“Crowds.”
“Same.”
“People who call electrical tape a permanent repair.”
“Correct.”
“Sweet pickles.”
He made a face.
“Correct again.”
“Morning radio hosts.”
“Obviously.”
“Being unable to help you.”
The final answer quieted him.
I looked at our joined hands.
“That is what I hate most now.”
Noah leaned closer.
“You help me constantly.”
“Not where I want to.”
“Where?”
“Inside your head.”
“You can’t.”
“I know.”
“You make it quieter.”
I looked up.
