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I mouth You wish and stroll over to the fridge, where I open the door and stand peering in. “You feel like breakfast or lunch?” I ask over my shoulder. “It’s kinda brunch time, which is why I went with bacon—though really, bacon’s apropos for any meal on account of it bein’ so delicious—but I’ve got fixin’s for sandwiches, omelets, pasta, crepes—” “Crepes?” she repeats loudly. I turn and look at her, glaring at me like a warlord from the kitchen table. Blinking innocently, I say, “I knew I was gonna have a guest from Paris, so I stocked up.” My lips twitch, but I try very hard not to smile. I’m only marginally successful. “Got escargot, too. You want some of those? Not really my thing, but I figure with you bein’ French and all”—I add emphasis on the word French—“you’d enjoy ’em.” She f
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