"Ready to order?" he asked, bravely.
Genevieve didn't look up.
"The club sandwich," she said. "Extra fries. Extra sauce."
She paused, then gestured vaguely in my direction.
"And whatever he's having."
"I'll have—"
"He'll have the same," she interrupted, still studying the menu.
"He just doesn't know it yet."
The waiter looked at me.
I shrugged, which is the international symbol for I have lost control of this situation and I'm perfectly fine with that.
He nodded and retreated.
Genevieve lowered the menu when the food arrived and picked up the sandwich — an architectural marvel of bread, meat, and questionable structural integrity that rose nearly to the height of her face.
She took a bite.
Closed her eyes.
And made a soft, satisfied sound that probably violated at least three local noise ordinances.
I leaned back in my chair, watching her with quiet admiration.
