The server interrupts my train of thought.
She drops off our dishes. Salmon and sautéed vegetables for Iris. Steak and greens for me.
"See." She picks up her fork. "Eating right."
"I have enough game to know not to comment on that."
"You sure?" She stabs a square of yellow squash and brings it to her lips.
"I am." I pick up my fork and knife. "Anything else on the list?"
"Reading."
"When did you start this?"
"Officially?"
"Yeah." I bring a slice of steak to my mouth. It's good. Rare. Salty. But it doesn't satisfy. I don't want food. I want to have her again.
"I guess I haven't. Not officially."
"Are you going to?"
"I don't know. That's even more cheesy."
"It suits you."
"Hey." She laughs as she flips me off.
My lips curl into a smile. She has a cute laugh. And a cute don't fuck with me look. "What else?"
"Journaling. Trying new things. Why are you so interested?"
"I've never met someone so methodical about getting over a breakup."
Her lips press together. Her eyes turn down. "How else are you supposed to get over anything?"
"Feel it out."
She shakes her head. "Then how do you know when you're there? "
"How you feel."
"I'd rather have metrics. It's easier to know if I'm making progress. Like the way you lift weights."
"You have no idea how I lift weights."
"Okay. How some people lift weights. You have numbers. How many pounds you can lift or how many pull-ups you can do or whatever. That's how you keep track of progress."
"And by how strong I feel."
She sticks her tongue out. "Numbers are a better measurement."
"According to who?"
"Me."
"Not everything fits into numbers."