Chapter 4: After the Cameras

The reception served dinner in glasses smaller than my lipstick.

Miles studied the tray passing between us.

"Is that soup?" he asked.

"It is an interpretation of soup," I said.

He accepted one, tipped it carefully, and finished before I found my spoon.

"A short interpretation," he said.

I laughed into mine and got cold carrot on my nose.

He gave me his napkin without pretending he hadn't seen.

Across the room, Wesley was waving at a photographer.

I moved behind a large flower arrangement with Miles.

It smelled like three funerals arguing about perfume.

"Do you want to leave?" he asked.

"I want food that requires a plate," I said.

He looked delighted rather than relieved.

We retrieved my coat and went to the little diner opposite the hotel.

The server offered us a booth and two enormous menus.

I opened mine between us like a screen.

"Nobody can photograph us through laminated breakfast," I said.

Miles lowered his side of the menu.

"I thought we were choosing dinner."

"We are doing both."

He kept one hand on the menu until I stopped looking over my shoulder.

I had spent months being watched for the wrong reaction.

His patience made me want to tell him something true.

The server came back with water and waited for our orders.

I requested the cheese plate with impressive confidence.

Miles asked for a grilled cheese sandwich.

"You have different kinds of cheese?" I asked him.

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