Just when I thought the storm had calmed, another shadow fell across the table.
"...My turn."
Nora placed a neatly wrapped cloth bundle on the table with a kind of ceremonial gravity. She untied the knots slowly, almost dramatically, like she'd been rehearsing the moment in her head all day.
When the lid finally came off, even I had to admit—it didn't look like a lunchbox. It looked like an exhibit.
Every color balanced. Every cut precise. Meat layered with care, vegetables arranged like accents. This wasn't food you just threw together. This was intent, concentration—affection, too, if you bothered to read between the lines.
Inside: tender chicken breast, grilled sausages cut with neat little slits, golden-brown pork cutlets that looked crisp but not greasy. On the side, kimbap rolled tight with just enough spice to cut through the richness.
It was the kind of lineup designed to hit straight at a guy's weak spot.
