CHASE
The leftover rigatoni was congealing into a sad, reddish clump in its Tupperware container. It was a metaphor for the entire evening. For the entire week, really.
“Just put the lid on it,” Sloane said, her voice tight with the kind of irritation that usually preceded a volcanic eruption. “You’re letting the cold air out.”
“I’m trying to get the last meatball,” I said, forking it out of the container. “It’s a tragedy of food waste to leave it behind.”
“It’s a tragedy of basic hygiene to hover over the communal leftovers like a vulture.”
I popped the meatball in my mouth. Chewed slowly. Made eye contact. “It’s a good meatball.”
Her jaw tightened. A tell. I’d cataloged all of them over the past few weeks. The slight flex in her jaw meant she was moving from ‘annoyed’ to ‘actively
