“Let me cook, okay?” He took the pot from her. The water sloshed, spilling on his shoes. “I guarantee I won’t set anything on fire.” “That happened one time,” she said. “I’m not a walking, talking hazard.” Like so much of what she said about herself, it was both a joke and not a joke. “I know you’re not,” he said seriously. Then he added, “That’s why you’re going to chop the saltfruit for me.” She looked thoughtful still—a weird expression for a face that frowned so easily—as she took the saltfruit from the coldbox in the corner and settled herself at the counter to cut it up.
