You say, You’re different here. You’re better, happier. Brighter.
Was I so dark before? I ask, puzzled.
No. Just … comparatively. You feel more comfortable here — here meaning New York, not this street we’re walking down to get to pie.
Ha, yeah, I got that. And that would be because I am. New York’s always been home.
You always said that, but, to be honest, I didn’t really know what you meant by it. And I still couldn’t explain what I mean by it, just that you seem more you. And I’m glad for it.
Thanks, I say as you laugh. What?!
You’re turning red! Why are you red?!
It’s cold! And I am not!
… it is not cold, and, yes, you are. What is it?!
It’s nothing! It’s just … I don’t know. I’m glad you were here for both? LA and New York? That makes no sense.
Mmm, planning to stick around for whatever’s next, too. You do go around saying Boston is the only other American city you’d be willing to live in.
I’d be more inclined to move again if you’d start cooking for me.
But why? Your butter beans were great, the perfect comfort food for a chilly winter day. Your friends liked it, too.
You know, you can’t compliment me into cooking all the time. Oh, shut up, and stop laughing, or I really will stop cooking.