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“What are you eating?”
She looks down at the container. “Soba noodles.”
“Are they supposed to be cold?”
“Yes.”
“And gray?”
“They’re buckwheat.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
Her eyes narrow. “Did you come early specifically to criticize my lunch?”
“No. I came early to impress you.” I give her a wide grin; she only narrows her eyes more. “Criticizing the lunch is just a bonus.”
She tries not to smile as she takes another bite.
Her hair is different today. Still twisted into a bun, but the pieces escaping around her face are curled instead of straight. Softer.
Pretty.
“Did you do something to your hair?”
The question leaves my mouth before I can decide whether it should.
Her fork pauses. “No?”
“It’s curly.”
“It’s naturally curly. I didn’t straighten it today.”
“You should leave it like that more often.”
Pink creeps into her cheeks. Then her ears.
“Sorry, I’m done with this anyway. We can start.” She puts the lid on her lunch and moves it aside. “Did you do the practice problems?”
“All of them.”
“Show me.”
I slide the packet across.
It pains me to think of the time I spent on these while the rest of the world continued having sex and making poor decisions without me.
Bea uncaps her red pen.
“You enjoy that thing too much,” I tell her.
“It only comes out when you’re wrong.”
“Exactly. You’re practically salivating.”
She works through the pages quickly, marking two answers and giving one a tiny nod.
“That was almost praise,” I say.
