“She’s wrong about some things.”
“I’m hungry.”
“You ate at the party.”
“I ate something placed on a spoon by a man wearing gloves.”
“It had mushrooms.”
“It had foam.”
“The foam tasted like cheese.”
“That sentence should require a permit.”
Claire took my hand.
The alley was empty except for the hotel employee and a delivery van with its rear doors open.
“Come on.”
“Where?”
“There’s a diner two blocks away.”
“We can’t walk there.”
“Why?”
I pointed at myself.
Claire looked me over.
The gown.
The diamonds.
The professionally sculpted hair that had survived three interviews, one award presentation, and an aggressive blast of confetti.
“You do look overdressed for pancakes.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t praise.”
“I’ve decided it was.”
She tugged me toward the street.
I followed.
That was a recurring issue with Claire.
The first year we were together, hiding had felt like a private joke.
We used fake names at restaurants.
We entered hotels through kitchens.
