"It calls for a lot of patience," Ana explains to the waitress, who’s half-listening to the rhetorical answer to her rhetorical question, "How do you put up with him?" She ignores Ana.
"I’m teasing," the waitress pats Paul’s shoulder and winks, "you’re cute."
Ana, half-jealous, raised eyebrows:
- Wow, I never noticed. You are cute!
- C’mon now.
He blushes, dips a fry in ketchup, bites it.
- I’m not really that hard to put up with, am I?
- No. You’re ok.
She smiles, drinks some coffee, holds her cup between her cold hands, elbows on the table, eyes him over its lip, puts it down to steal a fry.
- What were we talking about before?
- How bad that coffee tastes?
- No, before that.
- Oh, L.A.
She looks out the window. Addresses.
- I don’t know my way around there. I haven’t visited my mom much since she moved. I’ve only been to this house once, actually.
- Nice? Big?
- Yeah, both, I guess. It doesn’t feel like home.
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