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“I own the chicken.”
“You didn’t buy it.”
“I did,” I say.
“Joint assets.”
Tova groans. “That’s not what that means. You can’t just say joint assets every time you take food.”
“I can until a lawyer stops me.”
The kitchen smells like lime, cumin, and the peppers Colt has managed not to burn after I moved the pan away from him twice. He stands at the stove with a dish towel over one shoulder, arguing with a twelve-year-old about property law while tortillas warm beside him. I cut the last tomato and push half toward Tova’s bowl.
“Not that much.”
“You asked for tomato.”
“I asked for some. That’s half a tomato.”
Colt reaches across without turning. “I’ll take it.”
I put it on his plate. There is already chicken, peppers, onions, and the avocado he claims costs too much for something he can eat in four bites.
“See?” Tova says.
Colt glances down at the plate. “See what?”
“You didn’t even ask. She knew you wanted it.”
“She’s been feeding me for months.”
“I have not.”
Tova points between our plates. “And you put his avocado on the other side because he doesn’t like it touching the hot chicken.”
“That is ridiculous.”
“You did it.”
“I was arranging the plate.”
“You arranged his plate.”
“I arrange things.”
Her smile changes. Colt catches it at the same time I do.
“No,” he says.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re about to.”
Tova carries her plate to the island and pulls out her chair. “You two are married married now.”
The spatula stops halfway to the counter. My knife stays against the cutting board.
“We are married,” I say.
