They finished their wine, cleaned the kitchen, and locked up. Maya walked home alone that night—Sage had her own apartment to attend to, a cat that had been neglected for three days—and the streets were empty and wet and beautiful in the way that only Portland at 1:00 AM could be. She thought about Lila’s face when Sage had said “You’re not hopeless.” She thought about the wasted onion scraps, the too-cautious cuts, the desperate concentration of someone who had finally realized that talent wasn’t enough.
