“One of them is chocolate.”
“That’s how chocolate pie works.”
“That’s not panic. That’s infrastructure.”
“I like options.”
“You have options for twelve people.”
“You’re very critical for someone who brought emergency bread to a house containing two loaves.”
She closed the door.
“Fine. We’re both prepared for a minor siege.”
“Thank you.”
“Do we eat first?”
I looked at her mouth again.
“Yes.”
“Your face says no.”
“My face remains uncooperative.”
“Your face is extremely clear.”
“It’s rude to interpret people.”
“It’s one of my hobbies.”
We ate on the porch because the sun had dropped low enough to soften the heat and because sitting outside gave me something to look at other than Ellie’s legs.
It did not work particularly well.
We took the chicken apart with our fingers, ignored most of the vegetables, and made a respectable attempt at the cheese.
Ellie claimed the gouda tasted expensive.
I told her I had no idea what it cost because Rachel usually sent someone else into grocery stores when we were touring.
“That is the least relatable thing you’ve said so far,” Ellie told me.
“I’m trying to be vulnerable.”
“You’re very brave.”
“I once went four months without buying toothpaste.”
Her hand stopped halfway to the bread.
“You didn’t brush your teeth?”
“Someone bought it for me.”
“Oh.”
