You come into the kitchen dressed in one of my t-shirts, it reaches to mid-thigh. Your dark hair is slightly tousled but you’re more clear-eyed and rested than I expected after your condition the night before. I pour a glass of orange juice and you sit at the table, tucking a leg up beneath yourself to get comfortable. “Thanks.” You drink the juice in one. “I’m starving.” “I thought you might be.” Gas flares under the gri...