“Practical.”
“Favorite food?”
“Steak. Fried potatoes.”
“Good.”
She tries not to smile and loses. That little crack in her fear does something to me I don’t appreciate.
“Birthday?” she asks.
“September.”
“That is a month, not a birthday.”
“Progress.”
“You are terrible at this.”
“Darlin’, I’m excellent at several things. This just ain’t one of them.”
The word slips out easy. Too easy. It lands on her, too. I see it in the way her fingers tighten around her glass before she takes another careful sip of Firestarter.
I notice.
I notice too damn much with her.
“Your turn,” I say. “Favorite color.”
“Green.”
“Fancy green or regular green?”
“What does that mean?”
“Some women say green and mean money, emeralds, or whatever color rich curtains are.”
She picks up another fry. “Tree green. After rain.”
I file that away before I can stop myself.
Tree green. After rain.
“Favorite food?” I ask.
“Right now? Anything I don’t have to cook.”
“That include fries?”
“Especially fries.”
I push the basket closer.
She takes one.
“Birthday?” I ask.
“April.”