“And I want the credential because I’m tired of feeling like every unfinished race is printed behind my name.”
“That is the repair.”
“Yes.”
“Both can be true.”
She surrendered. I held out my hand.
“Laptop.”
“You brought your laptop?”
“It is in my bag.”
“This was supposed to be dinner.”
“It remains dinner.”
Steam rose from the pot behind us. Dani stared at my outstretched hand, then at the bag containing the computer.
“With financial modeling.”
“An efficient date.”
“Rule ten.”
“Dates are allowed to be inefficient. Not required.”
Dani got the laptop. Before we began cooking that evening, she accepted the installment plan and submitted the deposit seven days before the extended deadline. The confirmation page remained open on the screen until she saved a copy in three places at my request. The deadline had stopped being an approaching emergency. The remaining tuition had become a budget.
We made the sauce while the spreadsheet updated. Dani chopped onions with no consistent method. I reorganized the pieces when she was not looking. She noticed.
“Did you sort my onions by size?”
“For even cooking.”
“You could let one thing be chaotic.”
“Heat distribution is not chaos.”
She came behind me and put both arms around my waist. I stopped. The kitchen was small enough that her body fit closely against mine. Her chin rested near my shoulder.
“This is inefficient,” she said.
“I am holding a knife.”
She reached around and took it from my hand.
“Risk managed.”
“You interrupted food preparation.”
“I’m creating atmosphere.”
Her mouth touched the side of my neck. A small kiss. Then another. My thoughts lost sequence.
“Dani.”
