Page 38 of Redline Communion

I stand there long enough for her to notice.

“You’re staring.”

“You got sauce on you.”

She looks down, but the sweater blocks her view. “Where?”

I point to my own collarbone. She rubs the wrong side.

“Other one.”

Her hand moves and misses again.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

“I’ve been cooking,” she says. “Or attempting something close enough that the fire department hasn’t been called yet.”

“In my sweater.”

“It was closest.”

She says it like that settles ownership and steps aside.

I follow her into the apartment. Something on the stove is boiling hard enough to spit foam down the side of the pot.

“Lo.”

“I know.”

“You trying to make pasta or summon it?”

“I had it under control before you distracted me.”

“I was standing outside.”

“Very distractingly.”

She shoves the pot off the burner with one hand and reaches for a dish towel with the other. I catch the handle before she can grab it bare.

“Hot.”

“I’m familiar with the concept.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

She elbows me out of the way, and I steal the spoon.

“Touch that sauce and lose the hand.”

“You made enough to drown somebody.”

“I was emotional when I measured.”

I taste it anyway, and she smacks my arm with the towel. The sauce is good, probably too much garlic, so I take another bite to make sure.

“Rafe.”