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Dalton: Did you eat?

I roll my eyes, but not as hard as I would if I didn’t like it.

Me: You have one hobby.

Dalton: Answer.

Me: I had juice.

There’s a pause. Long enough for me to know exactly what expression he’s making.

Dalton: Juice isn’t food.

Me: It had calories. Technically we’re both right.

Dalton: What can you keep down?

I consider lying, mostly on principle, but my stomach chooses that moment to give a small, unpleasant roll, and I decide pregnancy is already humiliating enough without adding unnecessary dishonesty.

Me: I don’t know. Everything sounds awful.

Dalton: Try something salty.

That’s when the thought arrives.

Not a graceful craving. Not one of those cute pregnancy moments where a woman suddenly needs strawberries at midnight and everyone laughs fondly. No.

My brain, which has been refusing food like a tiny, tyrannical restaurant critic, suddenly presents me with one very specific image: greasy Chinese takeout noodles in a white box, too much soy sauce, something spicy, maybe dumplings if I’m brave.

I sit up a little. Oh no.

Me: I might want Chinese food.

Dalton: Might?

Me: I’m not emotionally ready to commit.

Dalton: What kind?

Me: Noodles. Maybe dumplings. Maybe that chicken with the orange sauce that is probably not food in a medical sense.

Dalton: Orange chicken.

Me: Don’t make it sound official.

Dalton: Rice?

Me: Maybe.

Dalton: Soup?

Me: Are you taking an order?

A pause.

Then: Yes.

I stare at the screen. My stomach flips again, but this one has nothing to do with nausea.