Terrence is not a person who fights with waiters. He once ate an undercooked burger rather than send it back because he said the kitchen had enough going on. For him to push back, on principle, was rare. He said, "I definitely ordered the duck breast. It's okay — can I just swap?" Brandt said, "Sir, you ordered the confit. The kitchen prepared the confit. I can bring you the breast if you'd like, but there will be a forty-minute wait, and you'll be charged for both." I want to be clear about how far out of standard restaurant protocol that sentence was. If a waiter brings a customer the wrong order, a restaurant eats the cost

and fixes it. That is how every restaurant on earth works. Brandt was not only misremembering — he was daring Terrence to make the wait longer and pay double. Terrence — my trusting, kind, Southern-raised boyfriend who had asked Brandt how his day was going two hours and seventeen minutes earlier — looked up at Brandt and said, "I'll just eat the confit." He did eat it. He pushed most of it around his plate. I ate my branzino, which was excellent, in silence. We ordered dessert. That is when the second eye roll came. We ordered tiramisu to share. Brandt made a small sound — a hmm, exhaled, annoyed — while writing it down.