Page 45 of The False Flat

“You’re proving my point.”

“What point?”

He sighed.

“Are you actually irritated with me because I don’t know who Fred and Delores are?”

“Doris. And no. That would be irrational.”

“Which you are never.”

“Of course not.” His mustache twitched. “A Fred is basically an amateur rider. Doris is the female version of that. You’re a Doris.”

“You’re a Doris,” I countered, shoving my spoon into the wiggly banana pudding.

“I mean—”

“This is amazing,” I interrupted him. “I’m listening; I promise. But this is seriously the best banana pudding I’ve ever had. Right up there with snickerdoodles and chocolate chip cookies, my faves.”

“It’s why I come here. It’s like a tiny cabana boy’s massaging my taste buds.”

“That’s your metaphor? A tiny human in your mouth?”

“You got something against cabana boys?”

“I just—never mind. Have you tried the other desserts?”

“When something’s this good, why would I need anything else?”

A flush worked its way down my body. He was talking about pudding, but my ridiculous mind was traveling elsewhere.

“I guess that’s fair.” I turned back to the couple while scraping the bottom of my container, the contents of which I’d already devoured. “So, before I rudely interrupted you about this very fine dessert, what were you going to tell me about . . . Fred and Doris?”

His forehead crinkled with delight. “Worth the interruption. But to address another possible one, I’ve seen you eyeing my dessert.” He lifted the clear glass container toward me. “Want a bite?”

I put a hand to my chest and leaned back in an act of manufactured indignation and ignored the vibration of a text in my pocket. I was taking too long of a lunch, but who was going to notice? It wasn’t like the boss was going to care. She was a flake whose talents were wasted because she didn’t know how to pull people in.

My spoon dove into his custard like an Olympian. “Tell me about Fred and Doris.”

“Every time I come here, they’re here. Same spot, same positions at the table. And they’re always having an animated discussion, as if no one else is in the room. I think they’re half the reason I come here, aside from the pudding of course. They remind me of my parents.”

We stared at the couple, and I wondered about Grant and Deanna’s parents. Deanna referred to them in the past tense, but neither sibling had elaborated.

As the elderly man leaned over the table toward his wife, she reciprocated. Their faces were only inches apart, their conversation intense and steady. There was also a lightness about it that came with familiarity, a bond between two people who knew each other better than anyone else in the world.

“I wish I knew what they were saying.” I shifted. “You know what’s odd?”

“Tell me what’s odd.”

“Usually older couples settle into a companionable silence, don’t they?”

He nodded. “You understand my fascination. They’ve been together for a hundred years, but those two are chatting it up like they’ve only just discovered they’re both marine biologists who specialize in microscopic phytoplankton.”

My eyelashes flapped. “Microscopic what?”

“Phytoplankton. Autotrophic single-celled microorganisms and the basis of marine ecosystems.”

“Are you still speaking English?”