He looks at me. His mouth moves. "Did you just make a joke?"
"No."
"That was shaped like a joke."
"Coincidence."
He selects Skittles and a bag of pretzels.
I look at the machine. "That's dinner?"
"This is dessert and structural support."
"For what?"
"The coffee I had at eight."
"You need supervision."
"Possibly." He bends to retrieve the candy from the slot. "Are you selecting food or conducting an autopsy?"
I choose the turkey wrap because there are no good options and hunger has made me practical. The machine accepts my card on the third try, which is generous by arena standards. The wrap falls with a dull slap.
Caleb winces. "That sounded medical."
"It's fine."
"You use that word for too many things."
I look at him.
He holds my gaze for one second and then looks down at the pretzels. Not retreat. Adjustment. He knows which words have history. He knows because he pays attention.
We take the food into the lower bowl.
The arena without people is a different animal. During games, it is noise and light and heat. Empty, it becomes structure. Rows of seats rising into shadow. The ice covered for the night, the boards quiet, the glass reflecting emergency lights. A building designed for spectacle, resting with its mouth closed.
We sit five rows up behind the home bench, plastic cold through my pants. Not close enough to the glass to feel like work. Not far enough away to feel like leaving.
I unwrap the turkey. It smells like refrigeration and compromise.
Caleb opens the Skittles.
"You can't eat that for dinner," I say.
"I can. I shouldn't. Different statements."
The line is mine. Or his. It started in the hallway with fine and compensating and now it has become a thing between us, passed back like a puck. I should not like that. I do.
I take a bite of the wrap. The tortilla sticks to the roof of my mouth.
"Well?" he asks.
"It has texture."
"That is not usually a compliment."
"Correct."
