Darlene’s eyebrows rise. “That’s a jump.”
“I know. I don’t know why I said that.”
“I do.”
“Please don’t.”
“You touched his face because you wanted to touch him and found the saddest possible excuse.”
I glare at her, but there is not enough strength behind it. “I was comforting him.”
“I’m sure you were. With your fingers. On his face. While both of you breathed at each other like the last two idiots in an airlock.”
“Darlene.”
“What? Was there breathing?”
I look away.
She points at me. “There it is.”
I shove the ruined tray toward the scrap bin. “Nothing happened.”
“That doesn’t mean nothing happened.”
“I swear, old women should not be allowed to speak before sunrise.”
“Old women are the only ones who should speak before sunrise. Everybody else is too dumb and hopeful.”
The front bell rings before I can defend dumb hope as a concept, and the morning rolls in with wet coats, hungry customers, and enough noise to save me from further cross-examination. I remake the honey buns. I do not burn the second tray. I take that as a sign of spiritual recovery, or at least functional denial.
Kauss arrives at six eighteen.
He ducks through the rear door because he has begun using it like staff, which is not something we discussed but apparently something my heart supports with embarrassing enthusiasm. The damp morning clings to him, beading on the scales along his jaw and darkening the shoulders of his coat. He pauses just inside the kitchen, as he always does, surveying exits, windows, locks, electrical panels, and people in one smooth pass. Then his gaze lands on me.
My entire body becomes aware of its own hands.
That is unfair. Hands should not become dramatic.
“Morning,” I say, too brightly.
His brow shifts. “Morning.”
Darlene leans toward me without lowering her voice nearly enough. “Try not to incinerate anything else.”
Kauss looks at the scrap bin. “Something burned?”
“No,” I say.
“Yes,” Darlene says.
I shoot her a look. “The first tray experienced adversity.”
“It experienced cremation.”
Kauss steps closer, and because the universe is cruel, he smells faintly of rain, cool concrete, and the clean mineral scent of his scales beneath the bakery warmth. The cut on his cheek from the zoo has already sealed, leaving only a thin darker line through old scar tissue. My fingers remember exactly where they rested last night.
He notices me looking.
