She deftly carved a slice of the meat and put it in her mouth. Even before doing so, she’d scowled, as though she’d already decided that there was something highly questionable in the appearance of the roast meat. He took no notice; after all, she’d spent the whole weekend turning up her nose at everything. That morning, while they were waiting for the walk signal on the Gran Vía de Colón, she’d slipped her hand into his pocket. A few of her acquaintances greeted her and she thrust her hand deeper into his overcoat, clenching her fist. Maybe she wanted him to protect her from those people: a couple, both local government employees, who eyed her suspiciously; a neighbor who gave him a vaguely knowing look. He found a way to hold that tightly clenched fist. Her unexpected fear was endearing; it reminded him of his daughter when she was just a few years old and something—a dog, another child—would terrify her. When that happened, he’d pick her up and hug her, but the small fists clinging to his shoulder would never unclench. Other than his daughter, he’d never known anyone who kept their fear in their fists. The fact that she shared some character traits with his child felt like a good omen. But that illusion was short lived: when the acquaintances were gone she took her hand out of his pocket. She’d just been showing them that she was dating someone, and the clenched fist was really a sign that she didn’t want to hold his hand.

“This isn’t kid goat,” she now said.

He was putting on his glasses; these days he wasn’t capable of eating without them. He took his time before sampling the meat. The woman put two more pieces in her mouth, chewed, and swallowed, all the while shaking her head. He quickly took a bite of the meat to check if she was right before the waiter she had called over could arrive at their table.

“This isn’t kid goat,” she said tartly.

It occurred to him that, like his wife, who had died the year before, she always needed to be the center of attention.

“That’s top quality kid goat, señora,” replied the waiter.

“No it isn’t. I know kid goat when I see it. I’ve eaten it often and always cook it at home when my children visit. It’s perfectly clear to me that this isn’t kid goat.”

“I can show you the carcass.”

“I’m already looking at the piece of meat that interests me. What you’ve got in the freezer is your own affair.”

“We can offer you something else if you want.”