“Rather makes one wonder if terms of endearment like ‘my sweetness’ were used innocently.”
He pauses his monologue.
That’s not a paintbrush. I cry out. I don’t want him to stop what he’s doing…
…and he stops. And he gets up to go to the refrigerator. And he starts rummaging. I groan. This isn’t fair. Just now, the oven timer also chooses to go off, so he takes spanakopitas and tiropitas out of the oven and baklava out of the toaster oven, and then turns off the heat to the ovens and sets the baking dishes on the counters to cool. We’re running out of counter space. I’m running out of patience, but that’s my problem.
When he returns, he has the bowl of grape and yogurt salad in the crook of his arm. “You didn’t really think I’d forgotten about you?” he asks. “Tsk. You know better than t
