Kyara felt a little warmer with each finger, wishing she could be the woman he was describing. When he reached the end of the hand, though, she knew she had to get him to stop. She wasn't the person he was describing.
"Look, that's very flattering, but it's kind of a whitewashed view," she said. "I'm also a workaholic orphan with a soon-to-be failed business and a history with men that would, quite frankly, make people run screaming from the room."
Jason stepped toward her, just a single step.
"I'm not talking about history, Kyara. I'm talking about the future. And from what I can see, you're going to be just fine." With that, he spun and crossed to the corner where she'd been eating. "This, for instance, smells amazing. If this is what you're serving, I'm pretty sure your business is going to be fine."
Kyara slumped, reluctantly crossing to join him at the plate.
"That's not cafe food. That's my lunch."
Jason looked at her with astonishment, then back at her plate.
"Why wouldn't you serve the food you like to eat?" he asked, sitting down where she had been eating. She sat across from him.
"Jason, this is soul food. It's pretty much poor Black people food. I don't know if you noticed, but there ain't a lot of that around here. I serve my customers, not me."
Jason shrugged, staring at the plate. "I don't know history, but I know what I like. And I like the way this smells. Can I ... can I try a bite?"
Kyara stared at him for a moment. This is insane. I'm breaking up with him and he wants to eat my lunch?
"It just smells way too good," he explained.
Oh, Hell. I never could say no to someone who liked my food, never mind when they look at me with those eyes.
Kyara stood, walking towards the kitchen.
It's nice to have someone actually appreciate my food, she justified to herself. And the sooner he gets over this, the sooner I can get him out of here.
"I'll get you a plate," she said, "if you agree to leave right after."
He studied her for a moment, his eyes equally thoughtful and hurt.
"Deal," he said finally.
Kyara turned to push into the kitchen, then stopped.
"You're wrong, by the way," she said. "You may be all 'I'm talking about the future,' and 'I don't know history.' But we all have a history, Jason. And it does matter. It tells us who we are."
She turned before she could see his reaction, and disappeared into the kitchen. There she popped from bin to bin, even adding a piece of the fried chicken cooling by the window. She returned to the dining area carrying the plate gripped in front of her like a soldier marching into battle.
He sat quietly, just waiting for her.
She placed the plate of hot food before him, pulling her own plate to herself, and placed a roll of silverware down near his hand.
In almost maddening silence, he picked up his fork, and pulled away a piece of the ham. He looked it over, an art critic in a gallery, before placing it between his lips. Kyara watched him as he slowly chewed, letting his eyes drift half-shut. Then he silently moved his fork for a piece of the tomato. Like before, he studied it, then slowly brought it to his mouth. He ate slowly, letting the textures and flavors play across his tongue. Finally, he took a single, long strip from the chicken, chewing it just as slowly as before.
Finished with each of his single bites, but he put the fork down on the plate.
Silence stretched.
"Well?" Kyara asked at last.
"That," he said at last, "is amazing." He reached for his fork again.
Kyara let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.
"You're a giant tease, you know that?" she accused.