Page 76 of Honeyfires

"I'm asking for educational purposes."

"I'm on the left," Vera said cheerfully. "She's on the right. She also takes up more space than the square footage would suggest."

"I'm nearly six feet tall," I reminded everyone.

"You're nearly six feet of diagonal," Vera said. "Last Tuesday you were practically horizontal."

"I was not—"

"Your foot was in my face, Petra."

Stevens pointed at me. "I knew it. I knew you were a diagonal sleeper. You set up sleeping systems like a wildfire perimeter. Maximum coverage, minimum consideration for other people's territory."

"I do not—"

"She does," Vera said pleasantly to Stevens.

"I'm going to need both of you to stop," I said, rubbing my temples.

"She also," Vera continued, accepting another slice of pizza, "has opinions about how the towels are folded."

The crew turned to look at me.

"I don't have opinions," I said. "I have—a method. There's a difference."

"What's the method?" Jackson asked immediately.

"Military fold. Thirds, then thirds again. Efficient use of space."

Silence.

"She showed me three times," Vera said. "There was a demonstration."

"Was there a quiz?" Stevens asked, grinning.

"There was not a quiz," I said, with perhaps more emphasis than the situation required.

"She's thinking about it," Vera said, eyeing me carefully.

"I'm not—"

"She's absolutely thinking about it," Miller said, which was the most words he'd contributed to a conversation about domestic habits in living memory, and everyone, including me, stopped talking for a moment to acknowledge that.

"Miller," I said finally.

"What? You are."

He went back to his pizza. I considered my options and found I had none.

Vera patted my knee with gentle sympathy. She'd won, and I was okay with that.

Everyone filed out after everything had been moved into Vera's apartment. Stevens left with a container of cookies Vera had prepped specifically for this occasion, Jackson with an agreement for a phone call for the crime novel discussion she'd promised, Miller with the remaining biscotti she'd made that morning and a very small nod of genuine appreciation.

Vera closed the door and leaned against it, looking at me with heat in her eyes, still in her moving-day outfit, the denim cutoff shorts and the tied-up vintage blouse, her hair coming loose from its ponytail in the way it always did by end of day, a few pieces falling around her face.

"We need to christen the apartment properly," she said. "Every room."

"Oh?" I crossed the room toward her slowly, and she watched me come the way she always did. Like she had no intention of looking anywhere else. "And how exactly does that work?"