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“There’s dinner.” I gesture down at the coffee table. “I know that you didn’t have time to eat before you came tonight.”
Her stare widens on me as I take the dome off the food. She’s regarding me with uncertainty as I crouch down, pulling a cushion from the couch, and sit on the floor opposite her.
“I don’t know anyone that doesn’t like shepherd’s pie.”
“Sheep,” she whispers with a faint smile that disappears as quickly as it appeared.
“No. No, I suppose they don’t.” I chuckle at her remark, and her smile appears again. Not for long, but it’s enough to lighten the air somewhat.
While I serve our plates, she sits on the floor like me. Her eyes are glued to the television behind me as she asks, “How do you know I haven’t eaten?”
“Because you came straight here from the conservatory.”
“Yes, but how do you know I didn’t eat while I was there? Or maybe I got something on the way here…”
“Did you eat at the conservatory?”
“No.” She shakes her head, taking the plate of food I hold out to her. “This is a lot of food.”
“When was the last time you ate?”
She shrugs. “I won’t be able to eat it all.”
“Then eat what you can.”
“You shouldn’t be so wasteful.” Eve’s whispered words ebb away as she stares down at the plate.
“Feeding you isn’t wasteful, and if it bothers you so much to leave food on your plate, I suggest you eat it all.” I fork a mouthful of the pie into my mouth and watch as she continues staring down at the plate, raking her fork through the food. “You don’t like it?”
“It’s been a while since I ate this.” There’s a hitch to her words that makes it sound like she’s holding back tears through the faint quirk of her lips.
Slowly she takes a small bite and then another, and another, and I didn’t realise I was so invested in her enjoyment of the dinner I asked the kitchen to prepare. But the more she eats, the better I’m able to enjoy my food.
“When I was little, my dad made this for dinner every Tuesday. Lamb’s expensive, and he wasn’t the frivolous kind. Thing is, he saw so much poverty when he was deployed that he made a point of teaching us to make the most of what we had.”
It explains a lot about her and the way she carries herself. The clothes she wears and where she lives. More than that, I can understand why she is so defensive about it. Enough so that she would go toe-to-toe with me.
“Lamb was always more expensive from Friday to Sunday because everyone would be having roast dinners on the weekend. On Monday, it would still be good enough to keep on display, but by Tuesday, if it wasn’t sold, it would be thrown out, so the butchers used to cut down on the price.”
Eve looks up at me with the softest expression she’s ever graced me with. No smile. No scowl or glare. It’s just her beautiful face and her fluttering gaze. If I could hold on to this image for life, I would.
“This is really nice,” she sighs before clearing her throat.
“Do you want a drink?” I show her the bottle of pinot noir that’s been left to breathe.
“I don’t—I-I don’t drink wine,” she tells me nervously. A pensive frown draws her face, as though she expects me to know that already. “I don’t actually drink alcohol. It doesn’t agree with me.”
“How so?”
“It goes straight to my head.” She shrugs, but the tension in her smile tells me there’s more to it.
Maybe something she doesn’t want me to know or that she’s uncomfortable sharing with me. But I make note of it. One way or another, I’ll discover it for myself.
“Water is fine,” she tells me, going back to her food.
I pour her a glass of water and myself some wine, watching to see if me drinking it in front of her makes her uncomfortable. Normally, if a person has a bad experience with alcohol or has history with it, they aren’t comfortable with others drinking around them, but Eve doesn’t bat an eyelid. It’s odd, and it only makes me more curious about her reason.
We’re almost finished with dinner when she asks, “You didn’t answer my question. How do you know I didn’t eat?”
