Free Let Me Explain You by Annie Liontas

alley. “What about him?”
    Stavroula punctured the orange with her thumb at the thickest part of the rind. One of her claims was that she could remove the skin in a single peel. The other was that she could instantly tell what someone had last eaten by appearance alone. She called out to Ramos, and he said, “Good morning, Chef.”
    She said, “You had a muffin for breakfast, didn’t you?”
    â€œYes, yes, Chef, a muffin.” Ramos’s grin was buttery. “A sweet one.”
    â€œSee?” Stavroula said. “Unquestionable gift.”
    â€œDoesn’t count. Come on,” July said. “Try me. What did I last eat?”
    Stavroula rubbed her thumb across the skin of her orange and it lifted from the fruit in a single spiral. She shut one eye and looked July over. The morning sun fell around her easily. Her long blond hair was pulled back but a few strands hung around her face, and she was wearing the same emerald earrings as yesterday. As if she had slept in them.
    â€œNothing. You haven’t had anything today.”
    July took the orange from Stavroula, the perfect peel. “That was lucky and cheap.”
    â€œI only say what I see.”
    â€”driving straight through social and into personal space, and now she and July were face-to-face, intimate, with only the heat coming off the ovens to separate them. July’s mouth, a lovely rip, how could Stavroula possibly look anywhere else?
    â€œJuly Summer Sausage,” July said.
    â€œYes.” This close, she could have whispered it.
    â€œPineapple July and Pig.”
    â€œAlready one of our best sellers.” BLT with rings of grilled pineapple for tomato, inspired by the ham and pineapple pizza that July had Stavroula make after the kitchen was already broken down. And then she proceeded to eat only the pineapple and pancetta.
    â€œA Whole July Rotisserie.”
    â€œA Whole July.” For the time that Stavroula watched her eat an entire chicken by herself. This one would be accompanied by watercress, yogurt, and lemon.
    The joke was fading from July’s face, if it had ever been there in the first place. “July’s July. Really. You put that on there.”
    â€œOf course: a plate of blackberries drizzled with extra-virgin, creamy feta on the side.”
    â€œAs Apple Pie—”
    â€œâ€”As July.”
    July was keeping her voice down, but just barely. She was not the manager of Salt for nothing. “An entire plate of blackberries? You expect people to order that?”
    One look at Ramos told Stavroula that the kitchen staff had been waiting for this: food fed you, but kitchen gossip made you take big bites. It didn’t matter. Stavroula was showing July instead of talking, using her hands, which were becoming a flowery purple by the second, pulling in some pickled red onion, a dash of crushed pepper, large torn leaves of mint. She placed the dish in front of July, added a generous handful of feta with her cupped hands. July’s July. The blackberries were a peal of bells hanging in a church tower, moon unveiling their shoulders. If she didn’t say so herself.
    â€œThey won’t be able to help themselves,” Stavroula offered, a little breathless. “We’ll sell hundreds.”
    Like that time they—she and July—bungled the produce order and got six times the amount of blackberries they should have. What had happened was, she posted a note for blackberries. One of the other cooks posted a note for blackberries. Mr. Asbury posted a note for blackberries. July posted a note for blackberries. Stavroula approved the order for blackberries when she was “multitasking.” Inexplicably, the producer left them two more crates on top of that. By the time they realized, a return was out of the question. They froze some, they unloaded some to other restaurants, they made ice cream and pie, they delegated to glazes and marinades, they served