“Any particular meals sound good to you?” “Not really. Whatever you want.” I took a deep breath. I wanted the old Miranda. The one who would’ve launched into a description of a four course meal she saw on Food Network. The one who would’ve browsed the dairy cooler for fifteen minutes trying to decide on a new, disgusting creamer for her coffee. The one who would’ve waltzed into the kitchen, insisting we play the tasting game. The one who would’ve lit a candle at every meal because the glow made things look special. I hoped that Miranda was still there. Somewhere.
