(646): The good kind of chicken. 4 o’clock chicken at least.
(646): Chettinad curry, and if you leave by 6:00 I can keep it warm.
(646): Of course.
(202): Four o’clock chicken? That’s definitely a Claim.
9 minutes later.
(202): I can probably squeeze out of here by then.
She manages it, but barely. Technically she actually doesn’t. Technically it’s six thirty when she finally leaves, but considering the fact that that’s nearly three hours earlier than she’d left the office last night, it can damn well be considered four o’clock in the afternoon. Maria dips into a specialty wine store on the way home and picks up a bottle of unoaked Chardonnay. She’s got it in the crook of her arm when she pushes the door open, head swiveling on her shoulders while she’s toeing off her shoes. A subdued amusement lingers in her expression as she turns and pads toward the kitchen.
“So is this what you turn into when you’re not otherwise occupied with nuclear fusion and radioisotopes?”