“That’s the problem with being in love,” Hammond said, “most guys don’t want to admit it.”
“What makes you an expert on that?” I quickly shoot back and chow down some more fries. And cola. And then more fries.
Anything to concentrate on … just concentrate on eating.
Hammond leans over the diner table, conspiratorially:
“I have figured it out,” he half whispers. Not low enough so it’s completely certain she doesn’t hear. Even with all the noise from the rest of the noon-time diner.
“What have you figured out, amigo?” I say, but keep my eyes where they are supposed to be:
The food …