Page 161 of Lorenzo

I point toward the lower cabinet beside the stove.

He finds a skillet and sets it on the burner.

“What do you have?” he asks.

“For breakfast?”

“If you would prefer lunch, I can skip ahead.”

I open the refrigerator and look inside.

“Eggs. Bacon. Some vegetables that might still be edible.”

“Bread?”

“Freezer.”

“You keep bread in the freezer?”

“I don't finish the whole loaf before it goes bad,” I say defensively. “Don't judge me.”

“I would never, cara mia,” he teases.

He moves through the kitchen without hesitation, pulling out what he needs and setting it on the counter. He finds a knife, a cutting board, and a bowl.

I pour coffee into two mugs and glance at him.

“How do you take it?”

“Black.”

“Of course.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It suits you.”

He chooses not to be offended, and I hand him a mug.

He takes a sip, then begins chopping peppers and onions with quick, practiced movements.

I lean against the counter and watch.

“You really can cook.”

“I said I could.”

“No, you implied genetics gave you the ability.”

“They helped.”

“That is still nonsense.”

He slides the vegetables into the skillet.

The smell of onion and bacon begins to fill the kitchen.

I know how to cook too.