Inside, the air was thick with rosemary, browned butter, and something electric—like lightning just before it strikes. The kitchen was not a separate room; it was the room. A long, scarred butcher-block counter separated four diners from the source of the magic.
On the plate: a single, unadorned saltine cracker.
The other diners became a silent congregation. The crying banker now painted murals for children’s hospitals. The laughing woman had opened a shelter for stray cats. We never spoke inside, but outside, on the street, we would nod—a shared language of healed fractures.
The double hyphen was always a puzzle. A stumble. A secret handshake you didn't know you were making.
We all looked at it. Then at her.