"That's a high bar. She's got a lot of good qualities."
"Volume. Deception. Surveillance. She's a triple threat." He stands and comes to the kitchen. Leans against the counter two feet from me. "Are you cooking or am I cooking?"
"I'll cook."
"You want help?"
"You can cut limes."
"I can cut limes." He opens the drawer and pulls out the cutting board and the knife and the motion is easy, practiced. The cutting board was not in that drawer three weeks ago. He has reorganized. He sees me watching. "Gwen suggested routines. The kitchen was part of it."
"Gwen suggested you reorganize your kitchen?"
"Gwen suggested structure. I interpreted it as knowing where my own cutting board lives." He sets a lime on the board. "She's good, Wes."
"Yeah?"
"She doesn't let me do the rating thing. I rated her office and she just sat there and waited until I was done and then asked me the actual question."
"What was the actual question?"
"She wanted to know what I do when I'm alone in this apartment at night." He cuts the lime in half. Focused on the lime, and not on me. "I didn't have a good answer."
"What did you tell her?"
"I told her the truth. I told her I watch the ceiling and wait for it to be tomorrow."
I don't say anything. His hands are steady on the cutting board.
"That was a couple of weeks ago," he says. "Now I have a better answer."
"What's the better answer?"
"I feed Mouse. I watch film. I read. I go to bed at a time that Gwen and I agreed on instead of whenever the ceiling lets me. It's not exciting. But it's mine."
"That's a good answer."
"It's a true answer."
The chicken goes in the pan with oil and salt. The limes go into wedges. The rice goes on the back burner. Mouse positions herself on a bar stool with the focus of a supervisor evaluating technique.
"She's judging your heat," he says.
"The heat is fine."
"Mouse disagrees. Look at her face."
"It’s a cat face."
"Her face is specifically communicating that you're running the pan too hot."
"The pan is not too hot."
"Wes, the pan is smoking."
I turn the heat down. He grins at me. I’ve missed seeing him like this.
"Seven-point-three for the chicken," he says, tasting the edge of the pan sauce. "The acid is right. You need more salt."
