“I’ve got it!” I shout. I let the door slam behind me, figuring that if Nick’s going to jump, he’ll have done it already. I point at him, hazy in a cloud of steam, attacking potatoes with a melon-baller.
I love his little potato curls.
He looks at me expectantly, and I get the syllables into place.
“The man is cooking,” I tell him, pointing at him. Then: “The man has a dog.” That time I point to the beagle, who looks pretty interested in potato curls, herself. I keep pointing. “The dog is not cooking.”
“You’re an actual freak of nature,” Nick scowls, turning to a bunch of thin strips of lemon peel as if he’s one to talk.
“He is not blue,” I mutter to Juliette, who ignores me. Nick pretends that he is, too, but he’s not; he’s scowling more than ever.
He’s just grouchy because I was saying that stuff in Japanese.