I woke up that morning, it being summer and all, at ten a.m., and decided to have breakfast. My stomach showed no signs of last night’s experiment, and I assumed my metabolism had kicked in. I made myself a couple of stacks of pancakes and ate them with liberal amounts of syrup and butter. At eleven, however, Dmitri called to ask if I wanted to come to brunch at Esteban’s, a café just along the street. I accepted, thinking I could surely handle some more good food.
At Esteban’s, I ordered two of the sizeable brunch platters, as did Dmitri. “You’ve taken my suggestion on board, then?” he asked amusedly, watching me get started.
“No,” I said nonchalantly. “I just think that if I do have a great metabolism, I should get everything I can out of it. I had a really huge supper last night and there wasn’t a trace of it there this morning.”
Dmitri raised his eyebrows, shrugged and continued to eat his meal. When we were both done, he said, “Rebecca’s having some people over this evening. She called me last night and invited both of us. I’ll be lending my presence to the evening. How about you?”
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