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Heather looks at my hand, then at me. Instead of correcting me, she folds her hands on the counter.

I wait.

She says nothing.

“Do you want it back?”

The kitchen keeps moving around me. Pans strike burners. Somebody calls for two steaks. The printer spits out another ticket. I hold the menu.

Heather watches me. “You act worse when I’m here.”

“You bring out the best in me.”

My grip tightens on the menu.

Heather glances at my hand. “Put it back.”

I set it in front of her.

“Straight.”

I square it with the edge of the counter.

Heather opens the menu again. “Now make whatever you’ve been planning since I sat down.”

I turn away before she can see what that does to my face. I know how she eats. More heat than she asks for. Almost no sweetness. Crisp edges first. Anything soft left until last. She never sends anything back. She’d rather watch me guess.

Tonight, I choose for her. I build the plate and set it down without explanation.

Heather looks at it. “What did you change?”

“Try it.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“Eat.”

Her eyes lift. I know immediately that I pushed once too far. She takes one bite. Then another. I wait for judgment. She keeps eating.

“Well?”

“It’s dinner.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“The food?” Heather asks.

“Yes, the fucking food.”

“Nothing.”

I brace both hands on the counter. “Then why are you looking at me like that?”

“Your station is filthy. You’ve bullied three people since I sat down. You put your bare hand on a fish Luis told you was done. And you took my menu so I’d make you give it back.”

The kitchen noise recedes. It was two people, not three. I don’t correct her.

She picks up her fork again. “That’s what’s wrong with it.”