Mira agreed. She hated the idea that the main source of Kipsen’s economy would now come from the Woodsman Plantation. Despite whatever the original intentions, the echoes of slavery were difficult to ignore. A new system had been created, one where the poor people in the town, faced with no other option, took jobs at the Woodsman because any job was better than nothing. It had not been lost on her that most of these jobs were service ones, and most of the people who’d taken them were black. And the visitors were mostly white; it was all haunting in its history.

The mood shifted. Mira tried to think of a way to lighten things, but failing, kept quiet. Jesse, taking the initiative, saw Mira’s plate of food and reached over, grabbing the last hush puppy and popping it in his mouth.

“Still the same. Always stealing my food.”

“Yeah,” Jesse said, laughing. He swallowed, then reached for one of the mints that had come with the meal. Mira heard the hard crunch of him chewing it down. “Remember how I used to tell you they got their name because an owner got tired of hearing his barking dogs so he hushed them up, ground their meat with meal, and fried them up?”

“Oh god, I remember! I believed it too. For the longest time I believed it. That’s why I never ordered them. I thought you two were eating dog.”

“But you ate them!”

“Yeah, well, they were still good.”

“I’ve missed you,” Jesse confessed.

“Me too.”

Mira sipped her water and sat back on the couch. Jesse’s gaze stayed fixed on her, the heat of it making her feel blissfully, radiantly alive. When was the last time a man looked at her in this way? She could not remember but felt like she should. One should know the last time they were desired by another. It had been too long, and the recognition of this absence enabled a sudden and intense longing; already she was imagining the way his hands would trace down the spine of her back, touching the curls of her hair, touching every part of her, feeling every curve and muscle and bone of her body.