1
He strolls back into the living room smelling like the acacia soap I keep for him.
The three piece suit. The jaunty walk. The eyes that see everything.
"Sorry for the comment about candles and rose petals," he says. "My life seems to be full of these canned domestic moments."
"It's okay. You've been marinating in estrogen for months." I get a smile out of him.
I continue, "It makes sense that you'd make certain assumptions about what to expect. But don't worry, I don't want you to cook me dinner or rub my feet."
His smile passes sunny on its way to incandescent.
I rise from the sofa. "That would be a terrible waste of Patrick Jane."
I follow him into the kitchen.
"Look what we have here." He deftly extracts the tin of Marco Polo tea from the pantry cabinet.
He continues to riffle through the shelves.
Not finding what he's looking for, he turns. "You want coffee, right?"
"I drink tea," I say.
"No coffee? Just think of the implications," he mutters.
"Yeah, no coffee breath," I say.
He snorts ruefully as he scoops tea into the china pot.
"I thought you loved Lisbon," I say.
"Not everybody's Lisbon," he replies.
2
Patrick Jane.
In New York City.
The opportunities for joy and fun and preferential treatment are unlimited.
Whoever came up with the bacon-wrapped hotdog must have never set foot in an A county.
