Vincent stomped the snow off his boots on the back deck, then again more gently on the mat inside the back door.
Blake turned from the pot he was stirring. Vincent inhaled both for the aroma and the warm air.
Vincent’s nose guessed Blake was making his own spin on white chili with tofu instead of chicken. He curried it, and Vincent thought it had a more Indian flair than any American southwest cuisine, but the one time he brought it up, Blake said:” fuck you, it’s got beans and cumin, it’s chili.”
“The hat lady was at the bus stop at Grand River again. Tonight was a Bolero type thing, with a white leather band and…”
Blake stopped stirring and walked directly to Vincent’s face, glaring, left fist jammed against his hip.
“The hat lady, uh-huh? The one you told me was eighty if she was a day?”
Vincent just nodded. No point in interrupting Blake when he was in lecture mode, and the pose was a 100% giveaway that he was firmly in lecture mode.
“And you paused, of course, to get the details on her hat, for what? The seventeenth or eighteenth weekday in a row, maybe more?”
Vincent added a pleasant smile to the nod, though he knew it would have little effect.
Blake leaned in closer.
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