Page 82 of Angel of Thursdays

Louis picked up his glass of sparkling water and looked at Cassiel over the rim.

“You’re taller than I thought,” Louis said.

“Compared to what?”

“The lock screen.”

A foot connected with something under the table. Louis didn’t flinch.

Cassiel scanned the menu. Miso brown butter bucatini. Yuzu carbonara. Shiso pesto with hand-cut pappardelle. A section labeled SMALL PLATES included something called ‘dashi arancini’ which Cassiel lingered on before moving on.

The hand-cut pappardelle was twenty-six dollars. Either reasonable or offensive depending on the pasta. The font was sans-serif, well-kerned; someone had cared about the menu design and someone else had not cared about the lighting.

Louis ordered the uni pasta—the most expensive item on the menu. Anna had a credit card on the table next to her water glass, and Louis had chosen this restaurant, according to May.

Cassiel ordered the shiso pesto—these were textures he could handle.

As the food arrived, Anna arranged her meal into small portions while May picked at his plate. Louis ate his food indulgently, singularly focused. He spoke when spoken to and once, unprompted, to tell Anna that their mother had sent another article about a rock.

May’s ginger ale came. He wrapped both hands around the glass the same way he wrapped his hands around the Otagiri mug. Cassiel looked away.

“How long have you worked at the watch place?” Anna asked, when the safe subject of work had come up.

“Two and a half years,” Cassiel said, staring into his pappardelle.

“So people bring you broken shit.” This was Louis, not looking up from his plate.

“Pieces that stopped for whatever reason. I repair them.” He had chosen not to react to ‘shit.’

Louis tilted his chin. “Right. How do you know when it’s fixed?”

The question was direct, so Cassiel answered directly. “You listen to the beat rate. A healthy movement has a specific sound at a specific frequency. If it’s off, you can hear it.”

Louis held his gaze for a second, said, “Cool,” and went back to his pasta.

May was still twirling bucatini around his fork, playing with his food. “Nice hoodie, Lou. Looks like a lawnmower went over it. How much was that, five hundred?”

“You’re just mad because you’re broke,” Louis said.

May jabbed the fork in Louis’s direction. “I’m frugal. I have spreadsheets.”

“You don’t have spreadsheets, dude, you don’t know how to make a spreadsheet.”

“I have a series of notebooks, which is an analog spreadsheet. You wouldn’t get it because you’re an iPad baby.”

“You have a fucking diary.”

“It’s called a system. And anyway, you literally bought another ugly five thousand dollar hoodie last week,” May said.

“Two hundred and fifty. It’s an investment, dumbass. Streetwear holds value.”

“Oh, yeah, like how sneakers held value? Bubbles pop. Clothes are for wearing, clownboy.”

“Because I’m listening to the guy wearing shoes he got from a flea market,” Louis shot back. Cassiel caught Anna smiling briefly before hiding it behind her water.

“—Anyway, where are you staying?” May asked.

“We’re in an Airbnb near Taraval,” Anna answered. “It’s so cute, there are all these cherub paintings in the rooms⁠—”