There was nothing childish about the question.
But the way Ethan scraped melting ice cream from the edge of his bowl reminded me not to mistake intelligence for adulthood.
Denise seemed to understand the same thing.
She did not drown him in explanation.
“I was embarrassed,” she said.
“Of me?”
“No. Of myself.”
“Why?”
“Because every year I waited, talking to you felt harder.”
“So waiting caused more waiting.”
“Yes.”
“That’s irrational.”
“Very.”
He considered.
“I do irrational things too.”
Denise smiled faintly.
“Like what?”
“I reorganized Mom’s kitchen alphabetically once.”
“You put flour beside forks,” I said.
“It was conceptually consistent.”
“It was chaos.”
Jonathan laughed.
Ethan moved to question two.
“What do you actually know about me?”
Denise looked startled.
“I know you’re brilliant.”
“That’s what strangers know.”
Her face fell.
Ethan continued before the silence grew painful.
“What food do I hate?”
“Broccoli?”
