Page 189 of Lorenzo

I glance at the bottle in front of me.

“This is fine. Thanks.”

She leaves.

I stare after her for a second.

Then I look at Lorenzo.

“What?”

“She asked if I would prefer a Coke.”

“I heard,” he says, still a little amused at me. “You sometimes drink them, don't you?”

“Yes, I guess I do,” I say.

But what bothers me is that she knows that. That she also knows what brand of sparkling water I prefer.

I pick up my fork.

The chicken is good.

I take another bite.

Extra capers, which is how I like to eat it.

I reach for the bread and notice there is olive oil on the table.

I prefer olive oil over butter.

I look toward the kitchen.

There are crackers in one of those cabinets that I like. I know because I ate half a box of them here three nights ago. There's also a box of the brand of treats I buy for Mocha in another cabinet.

When I stayed over. At his house.

I pause with the bread in my hand.

Lorenzo looks up from his plate.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I tear off a piece.

It is not nothing.

I just do not know what it is.

A couple of weeks ago, Lorenzo was spending most of his time at my place.

Then his sons went home, and somewhere along the way, I started coming here more often.

At first it was dinner.

Then I stayed over.