It was their third morning at the Plaza Hotel. He had only left once for a packet of cigarettes; she had not left at all. Their breakfast arrived at nine and, as usual, he tipped well and sat at a glass table, overlooking the city and Central Park, sipping his coffee while she ate in bed.
“Why do you always order the mixed berries?” he asked, watching her cut her waffles around them. “You know they cost more, and you never eat them.”
“Because,” she said, adding syrup to her waffles, “the one day I don’t, I may want them.”
“Why do you always order the mixed berries?” he asked, watching her cut her waffles around them. “You know they cost more, and you never eat them.”
“Because,” she said, adding syrup to her waffles, “the one day I don’t, I may want them.”
