Page 17 of The Plus One

“Nah. Not really.”

She gave me a look. That had me wondering if I said the wrong thing. “What?”

“Nothing, you just barely ate at the bar.”

“I ate.”

“You ate three wings.”

“Damn you was counting?”

“I just happen to notice things.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Apparently.”

I twisted the cap off my water as she went back into the refrigerator. “What you doing?”

“Making a sandwich.”

“Do you want something”

"Nah."

Kema pulled the bread, bacon, ham, turkey, tomatoes, cheese, mayo, and mustard out before setting everything on the counter. “You sure you don’t want one?”

I looked at the food. “Make me one.”

“See? Greedy ass said you didn't want one.”

“You did offer twice.”

“That was before you irritated me.”

“Too late now. Seeing all that a nigga is hungry.”

She rolled her eyes but grabbed two plates. I leaned against the opposite counter and watched her. Kema had sobered up considerably since we’d left the bar. Her words weren’t running together anymore. Her eyes were clearer. She was still moving slower than usual, but the woman standing in front of me now wasn’t the same one who had damn near fallen asleep in my truck. Good. Because my thoughts weren’t getting any cleaner.

“So,” I said, “this what you do?”

“What?”

“Get drunk and make sandwiches?”

She looked over her shoulder. “First of all, I’m not drunk anymore.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your address?”

She rattled it off.

“Birthday?”

“February twenty-second.”

“Who’s the president?”