I’ve been a good sport. You’ve got to admit that. I didn’t fuss while you spread the mortar. Set the bricks. Not to sound like a bad sport, but I suspected the whole time, when you lured me back here. I thought, “Just let her—” please answer, Clarissa, something just scurried over my foot “—have her fun.” 

When we met, I warned you: I’m helpless for redheads and root vegetables. It’s well past noon, and no knocks, Clarissa. If it is soup day, please save me some. In a to-go cup. I’m happy to drink it cold.  

I really need some ointment for my wrists, Clare. Angel. These cuffs are digging in. 

Did I tell you—I’ve named the sunbeam who shines through the loose brick in the wall “Vertumnus,” after the Roman god of vegetables. Because of how much I know—do you remember on our first date? Maybe second? You said, “This is really good.” I’d suggested you try the minestrone. And that’s how I think of it—I’m so hungry, back here, Clarissa—could you please bring me a bowl of my— 

Our soup?