Victor picked up the seventh bowl and helped himself to a second serving. "I was saving that for Rose," Felicity said. Her throat closed on the name, which was bad enough on its own. It was worse knowing she was about to cry over a wooden bowl in a place where anyone with half an ear could hear her.
"I know whose bowl it was, Fel. I also know she'd stab me with her spoon if she found out I'd let anybody throw away perfectly good stew on her account." He sat down with his hip against hers. The underside of the highway made a decent roof, and somebody had drawn an enormous pair of hairy balls on the pillar opposite them. This was the part of the evening when Rose would have wanted to know which man had sat still for the drawing.
