As they sip crema from ceramic, they speak of weather, favorite types of oatmeal, the personal histories of his cats. One is black, the other white, both longhaired and agitated. Through narrowed eyes and accusatory body language, they watch Tiffany as though they know exactly what she’s done. When James feeds them rabbit pâté, Tiffany wonders aloud why their interactions are so consistently plagued by the odor of pet food. He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t seem to hear her at all. She smiles. “What do you think it means?” “Probably nothing,” he snaps, his attention on his phone. “Not everything means
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