I looked toward the award on the table.
“At least you survived.”
“I completed the carpet. Survival suggests a lower standard.”
“You removed your shoes in private.”
“I showed discipline.”
A knock announced the food.
I brought the tray inside and set it between us on the bed.
The sandwiches were held together by wooden sticks and excessive confidence.
Ellie removed hers carefully.
I did not.
The top half slid sideways, releasing tomato, sauce, and one artisanal pickle onto the front of my dress.
Ellie looked down.
Then at me.
“You dropped it again.”
“This one had structural problems.”
“You have blamed two sandwiches, one stove, and several pieces of furniture.”
“I’m beginning to suspect a pattern.”
“That is encouraging.”
“Recognizing patterns is important.”
“So I have been told.”
She took a napkin and wiped sauce from the dress.
I looked at her bare feet, the discarded heels beside the chair, and the name card from the theater partly visible inside her open bag.
“Are you keeping the name card?” I asked.
“No.”
“You put it in your purse.”
“For recycling.”
“The hotel has bins.”
“The cardstock is excellent.”
I kissed her shoulder.
She stole the unbroken half of my sandwich.
