from the cabinet over the counter and opening the drawer below it to select a bottle opener.
I perched on a stool in front of the counter while he poured rubied liquid into both of our glasses.
“Might want to let it open up for a few minutes,” he said.
I took the glass he slid over to me and swirled the contents, watching the scrim of burgundy slide across the swell and dissolve, again, and again.
Morrison dumped olives, marinated artichokes, caramelized garlic, and capers into separate bowls then turned his attention to the cheese.
The man brought me cheese. I tried not to think about how it would probably be a perfect room temperature by the time I’d fucked him on the kitchen floor.
He laid a slab of aged Parmesan on a plate and anointed it with a smear of thick golden honey. “It’s supposed to be excellent with the Armaron. Oops, almost forgot.” He reached into the bag and withdrew a can of white albacore tuna, which he opened and divided among the three bowls on the floor. The three sets of eyes that had been watching his preparations with abject fascination turned their attentions to this unexpected gift. “Thought they should have a little something special if we were going to,” Morrison added.
On second thought, we’d have time for a go on the floor, and against the wall. Parmesan holds beautifully, after all. “Looks wonderful,” I said.
A tumbling handful of figs and silky slices of prosciutto completed his masterpiece of a plate. “Should we do this here? Or on the coffee table?”
“Both,” I said.
“What?” he asked.
“What?” I repeated. “I mean, sorry. Let’s sit at the coffee table. More comfortable.”
We each grabbed a couple bowls, balancing them in the crooks of our elbows while we held our glasses and plates, unwilling to make two trips even over such a short distance.
He picked up his glass and held it out to me. “Cheers?”
“To what?” Lest I clink glasses to a cause I didn’t support. A girl couldn’t be too careful these days.
“To cheese. And food. And you.”
“I’ll give you two out of three.” We clinked and sipped. The aroma of figs and licorice tickled my nose before the wine stroked my tongue with deep, raisiny resonance. My throat warmed as the liquid burned its way to my belly. “Whoa. This packs a punch. What’s the percentage on this stuff?”
“Fifteen, I think.” He swirled his glass and inhaled the bouquet before taking another sip.
“Mee-ow.” I let another bolt of warm liquid velvet slide down my throat.
“I like it when you make animal noises.” Morrison reached out and tore the crusty end piece off the baguette, and, knowing it was my favorite, offered it to me.
I took it and we built our plates in silence. It had always been so with us—appetites assuaged first, questions asked later.
“I didn’t have time to check if your fridge had been replenished along with the rest of your apartment. I took a chance you might need dinner,” he said, building himself a bite of prosciutto, honeyed Parmesan, and baguette.
“Very thoughtful,” I said, following suit.
In fact, my fridge hadn’t been all that great before I’d left for Scotland. The mostly disappointing contents had indeed been returned to their non-leprechaun-invaded and mostly empty state.
We chewed together in silence for the space of several moments.
“Actually, there’s something I wanted to ask you.”
“Goddamn it,” I said, plopping a goodly wedge of Cambozola back down on the cutting board. “When will I ever learn that your food always comes with ulterior motives?”
Morrison picked it back up and ferried it to my plate with a cheese knife.
“Hanna, what happened here last night,” he said, “what’s been happening as long as I’ve known you. It’s not—it doesn’t—”
Offering him no assistance whatsoever, I paired the new cheese acquisition with a fig and set my total focus to enjoying the silky, salty, piquant creaminess.
“Things have to make sense,” he said, finally able to distill his point. “Everything has an explanation. A logical explanation.”
“Not everything does.” A truth I had to be taught again and again.
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Morrison turned on the couch, angling his body to face mine. “If you wait long enough, even the most inexplicable events can be traced back to a single decision. Some seemingly unimportant detail you overlooked. Everything has a beginning, and an end. And if you’re patient, the pieces come together. They always do.”
“You’re talking like a detective.” I leaned forward to pick up my glass of wine and take a