"They're coming Thursday," I told Elena at breakfast.
She looked up from her phone. "Who?"
"My parents."
She put the phone down.
"Both of them."
"Yes."
"For dinner."
"Yes."
She picked up her coffee. Her hands went very still around the cup, which I had learned in three weeks meant her brain was moving fast.
"Okay," she said. "What time?"
"Seven."
"What does your mother eat?"
"As little as possible."
"And your father?"
"Whatever your mother eats."
She nodded once. "Okay."
She stood, put her cup in the sink, picked up her bag. At the hallway door she stopped.
"Dom."
"Yes."
"What do I actually need to know about them? Before Thursday."
I thought about how to say it cleanly.
"My mother cares about image," I said. "More than almost anything. She'll decide in the first ninet
