She had a blanket draped over the back of the couch, the kind that looks like someone’s grandmother taught someone’s granddaughter how to make it right. A stack of takeout menus, a notebook with a lemon on the cover, and the remote sat on the coffee table like artifacts from a comfortable culture.
“Order now or later?” I asked. “I can be persuaded by anything that arrives in paper boxes.”
“Let’s order first,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in a way that was more practical than coy. “I won’t survive this movie on lemon bars alone. Chinese okay?”
“It’s your religion,” I said, and earned a pleased noise I filed under yes, again. She dialed with the ease of a person who already had this plan in her bones before I asked my question upstairs. I loved her for that—having wan
