“I ate a coconut crisp and the whole thing shriveled in my mouth, evaporating into nothing but pure taste. I held another up to the golden light as someone sat down across from me.
"I can't figure out this cooking technique. Do you think it's a meringue?" I asked.
"Actually, I believe it's freeze-dried."
My gaze leaped from the coconut crisp to the source of the foreign-sounding voice, smoother and younger than Michael Saltz's agitated lisp. Pascal Fox.
His black hair was slightly matted and spiked, hair that was- amazingly- a bit like mine, thick and straight in places, wispy and fine in others. He wore a cobalt-blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing his tattoos. In the semi-dark, I made out a mural of forks and knives, cows and pigs, carrots and eggplants and squashes and melons, like a super-hot, toned supermarket. He seemed to be showing off the whole mural to me.
"Oh, hi!" I said.
"I remember you. You came to my restaurant about three weeks ago, right?"
"Wow," I said. "You have a good memory." I couldn't stop blushing and I regretted eating all that food. It was hard to feel pretty when I felt nine months pregnant.
"I don't remember everyone. Just the special people." He nudged his body an inch toward mine and my breath caught in my throat. Up close, I noticed he had a slightly crooked smile and somewhat stained teeth. I liked that he wasn't the perfect model he appeared to be in all the magazines. He was almost a regular person.”