Saturday came a day and a half after the restaurant, one of those mid-morning stretches where neither of them had anywhere urgent to be.
Kelly's apartment smelled like burnt toast, the second batch after the first one had gone black in a toaster that clearly hadn't been cleaned since she moved in.
She stood at the counter scraping the char off with a butter knife over the sink while Liam sat on one of the two stools at her kitchen island, still in yesterday's shirt, scrolling through something on his phone he wasn't actually reading.
"You know most people would just throw that one out," he said.
"Most people don't have three slices of bread left," Kelly said, not looking up from her scraping. Black flakes rained into the sink. "This is a functioning slice of toast. It's just been through some things."
"That's a very generous read of a piece of charcoal."
