“What can I say? I’m in a good mood, too. Found myself a new apartment, in a sick location, for an even sicker price.”

“That is good news,” I pipe up. “The other side of town, is it, near an entirely different café?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind either way—considering my sixty-five-percent success rate”—I tap the tabletop lovingly—“but you’d be better off. I was only thinking of you.”

Evelynn brings the black bean and quinoa bowl over. She stares at us for a moment, then says drily, “You guys finally figured out you could share the table, huh? What did it take, three weeks?”

“Ask Zoey here. She keeps a record.”

“We’re only sharing it for today,” I correct her. “Inclement weather and all.”

Her expression doesn’t change. “Uh-huh.”

She leaves, and Miles and I peer down at the bowl of food we’re apparently sharing.

“Can we have a separate bowl?” I call to Evelynn’s back, which stiffens.

We await her return in silence, but when she swings by our table again, she’s empty-handed. Wordless, she lifts the bowl up to reveal a plate underneath and pivots away again.

“It’s smaller than I expected,” Miles remarks.

“$14.87 doesn’t buy what it used to.”

I scoop approximately half the quinoa onto the plate.

“I know we discussed your greed earlier, but could you at least try to make it equal?” Miles asks.

“What are you talking about, your portion is clearly larger,” I respond.

There’s a gleam of humor in his eye. “Does Evelynn need to come back and intervene?”

“That sounds like the title song in a musical. ‘Intervene, Evelynn!’ ” I sing, to the tune of “Hello, Dolly.” What is happening?! He just sang “Hooray for Hollywood” and now I’m channeling Broadway? Whatever, who cares.

He shifts the bowl and the plate so they’re side by side and peers skeptically at them. I can’t stop an annoyed snort from escaping.

“For fuck’s sake, pick one,” I gripe.

He slides the plate closer to him and pushes the bowl at me.

“Ladies first.”

“What am I, your food taster? Seeing if it’s poisoned?”

“You do seem violently determined to keep this table. I don’t know what lengths you’ll go to.”

I place a forkful of black bean quinoa on my tongue. My eyes widen and I contort my face as I force the food down.

He looks nervous. “Well?”

“It’s . . . fine,” I choke out unconvincingly, reaching for my glass of water and taking a hearty swig.

His nose wrinkles. “That bad, huh?”

“No, nooo,” I hedge. “You’ll probably like it. Why don’t you take a nice, big, enormous bite and find out?”

He looks mournfully down at his food. “Great.”

He digs his fork in and scoops out the smallest possible portion, gingerly raising it to his mouth.