“Yeah, you were,” I said. I was too full to finish. I worried I might puke, actually, because I often puked after eating.
(Not bulimia, just cancer.) I pushed my dessert plate toward Gus, but he shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, reaching across the table for my hand. I let him take it.
“I could be worse, you know.” “How?” I asked, teasing.
“I mean, I have a work of calligraphy over my toilet that reads, ‘Bathe Yourself Daily in the Comfort of God’s Words,’ Hazel.
I could be way worse.”
“Sounds unsanitary,” I said. “I could be worse.” “You could be worse.” I smiled. He really did like me.
Maybe I was a narcissist or something, but when I realized it there in that moment at Oranjee, it made me like him even more.
When our waiter appeared to take dessert away, he said, “Your meal has been paid for by Mr. Peter Van Houten.”
Augustus smiled. “This Peter Van Houten fellow ain’t half bad.”
We walked along the canal as it got dark. A block up from Oranjee, we stopped at a park bench
surrounded by old rusty bicycles locked to bike racks and to each other.
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