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ACT 1 — The Setup
The rain in Paris has a generosity to it that Louisiana storms don't; it comes not only to cleanse but to invent. It varnishes cobblestones into mirrors, makes shop windows weep, and leaves a smell that tastes faintly of stone and chestnut. I had arrived to chase a sauce through the alleys and archives of a city whose memory of food is as stubborn and complicated as a grandmother's recipe. Instead, in the small hours of a rain-stained afternoon, I found myself beneath the faded awning of a secondhand bookstore on Rue des Roses, dripping onto a brass threshold and wondering how to make myself a person again after a year of being, in professional terms, everything and in private terms, not nearly enough.
I am Gideon Broussard, thirty-seven, a chef and a food writer who spends more time tasting than talking about what he tastes. I came to Paris with a notebook filled with questions about beurre monté and the difference between memory and seasoning. I came, too, to be less alone in a way that a kitchen crowded with sous-chefs and deadline dinners had not managed. You cannot write about food without letting it write you back, and after months of cutting away the parts of myself that felt tender, I wanted something to cut into me the right way.
The bookstore was called La Rumeur — the letters peeling like the flaking paint on a pot of roux. Inside, it smelled like dust and old paper and the sort of lemon-scented polish that can't quite hide the ink-smell of translated poetry. I shrugged off my wet coat, the rain drawing veins of dark down my shoulders, and the owner—a man with a face like an unpaid bill and hands that had likely never seen a knife in anger—gestured to a table by the window.
She was there before I sat, a silhouette against the window, a slim figure in a charcoal coat with a scarf tied like a question mark at her throat. Her hair, damp and dark, adhered in gentle waves to the side of her face. She had the calmness of someone who knew the geography of her own silence and had mapped it well. When she looked up and smiled, the bookstore lit for me like a match struck under a skillet.
Camille Moreau, I would later learn—Camille the translator, Camille who worked afternoons at the Musée de la Vie Romantique and evenings teaching a class of thirty-somethings how to read Proust aloud. She wore words around her like jewelry: precise, well-chosen, and capable of making the plain look sacred. In conversation she moved like someone who had tasted the right wine at the wrong moment and kept the memory of it; she was wry, intelligent, and likely to put cream where another woman would put scorn.
Our hands met reaching for the same copy of a book about rivers—an idiotically romantic encounter, the sort you imagine only in the margins of novels. The book was yellowed, its spine softened by possessive fingers. Her hand was small and warm; the skin on the inside of her wrist smelled faintly of soap and bergamot. We laughed, that disarming small laugh that wipes away the notion of embarrassment and leaves only possibility.
"Vous lisez l'anglais?" she asked, tilted head and eyes like carefully indexed pages.
"Enough to get myself into trouble," I said. My voice carried the gumbo-slow drawl I never managed to hide. I watched her mouth shape the words; it was a small, private performance I fell in love with for its simplicity. "And enough French to seem rude when I try too hard."
"Ah. Americans in Paris," she said lightly. "You come for the food or the fog?"
"A little of both. I cook, and I write about cooking. I'm looking for the thing that makes a sauce sing—the part you can't quite see on the recipe card. And maybe for a good rainy afternoon." I shrugged, embarrassed at how earnest it sounded in a room built for quiet confessions.
"You should try the tea at the salon across the street," she said. "They keep the mirrors warm and the scones honest. And they won't speak to you in any language you can't answer."
We left the bookstore together despite not arranging to go. In Paris, small acts of companionship feel less like luck than like inevitable choreography; rain redraws paths and people fold into them. The salon was narrow and smelled of butter; sunlight was a rumor beyond the glass. We chose a table by the radiator because warmth invites talk and pain in equal measure.
Her fingers hovered over the teacup and then against the rim, and when she spoke of the curator she knew at the museum, the way she described his hands felt like a food metaphor—"hands like a pair of tongs, careful and exact." In my head I cataloged her: how she laughed at a joke before letting its meaning land; how she observed the color of everything as if it might be a seasoning. She had the careful appetite of someone who wanted to taste everything slowly, to know the grain of her own pleasure.
I told her the truth by degrees: that I had left New Orleans partly to breathe and partly because the restaurant I loved had become a machine that kept ghosts well-fed. I told her about the book I was supposed to be finishing and how the chapters on bechamel read like love letters to my grandmother. When I confessed the loneliness, it came out not as complaint but as reportage—observations marked by hunger.
She listened. When someone listens like that—without offering the salves of advice or the sugar of platitudes—something in me unclenched. I found myself volunteering up small things, as if to see whether she'd keep them.
"I miss the heat," I admitted, a confession of weather as much as heart. "Not just the climate. The heat that makes you forgive yourself. Here it's all patience and polish."
"Paris forgives slowly," she said. "But it forgives in the end. It teaches you to enjoy the wait."
That sentence lodged, pricked, and stayed. When she reached across to steady my trembling cup—my hands were always dramatic in the cold—her fingers brushed my knuckles. It was casual, but my body misread it as a declaration. The radiator hissed, the rain wrote music on the glass, and for a breath I let myself imagine a life rewritten with her at its center.
We parted that day with the pliant promise of another meeting: she would show me a book of old recipes hidden in the museum's library if I would tell her the story behind my favorite gumbo. It was the kind of trade that made sense in Paris—knowledge for warmth, recipes for companionship. I left the salon buoyed and terrified in equal measure. There was curiosity in me, yes, but also the memory of a marriage that had cooled from simmer to scorch. I had learned how to be careful with myself; in my chest the ache of wanting and the fear of being wanted in return cohabited like two ill-suited tenants.
ACT 2 — Rising Tension
Our acquaintance grew the way a good stew does—slowly, with heat low enough to let flavors marry without bitterness. We met over the next week in alleys and libraries and cafés where the rain continued to dictate the city's tempo. Each time we talked, she peeled back a layer and I considered the ways I was peeled back myself in return.
Camille's life in Paris was both tightly wound and luxuriously unruly. She moved through the museum's rooms as though she were reading Braille—the way her fingers brushed along the backs of books, the way she described a painting as if she were narrating a recipe. 'The light in that canvas,' she told me once, 'is like the first butter you add to a pan; it changes everything.' She loved precision in language but revelled in the looseness of a well-placed simile. She had faith in patience; she had faith, too, in the accidental. I started writing small pieces about her—the curve of her mouth as she made a spark with a memory, the way she tucked hair behind her ear when she was thinking. I never told her that; some things are nicer to keep as private garnishes.
There were near-misses—deliciously cruel. Once, in a gallery lit by the kind of light that makes faces appear more honest, she took my coat as the rain returned. It was a brief, ordinary kindness, but the cloth slipped from my shoulders and her fingers lingered at the nape of my neck. The world bordered on a quiet electric and then, at the edges, a phone alarm burst like a cork. An acquaintance she had been avoiding appeared, pleasant and oblivious, and we fell back into the safe zone of public civility. My chest tightened in disappointment so sharp it was almost hunger.
Another evening, I cooked for her. I'd found a tiny apartment a block from the Seine, with a stove that coughed when tempted and a window that let me hear the rain like an audience. I wanted to impress her with an old recipe—a gumbo stripped to its essential bones, with pepper and shrimp and the kind of roux that reminds you of a funeral you threw to celebrate life. She arrived late, cheeks blooming with cold, a scarf gone slack around her throat. She sat at my wobbly table and watched me as if I were someone demonstrating a small magic.
I remember the way she inhaled when the pot gave off its first sighs. I watched her fingers curl around a warm mug as I stirred, and I felt a nameless hunger that no recipe could satiate. She asked about the patience of roux and I began explaining, and she listened not as someone who wanted instruction but as someone who wanted the story—the lineage of hands that had taught each fold, each patience. When she touched my forearm to steady herself and my skin remembered that contact in the way a well-tempered pan remembers heat, my breath caught.
We stopped before we reached anything inevitable. A knock at my door—an editor with a press dinner invitation—brought the evening back into the orbit of manners. She left with a kiss that tasted of lemon and the promise to visit the museum's library. It was the kind of goodbye that felt like a cliff we had both decided not to leap from.
Those interviews and interruptions were not merely social inconveniences; they were the scaffolding of restraint. She spoke often of fidelity in small sentences: about her father and how he would stand by the window and not move because he trusted the rain to tell him when to step back from the piano. She was not closed off, but she was an architect of her own boundaries. That architecture intrigued me. In my work, I often dismantled things—old recipes, tired conventions—to see what remained. Camille had the patience to build.
There were other tensions—internal ones. I was a man who had become practiced at retreating into the comfort of recipes. A chef learns to hide vulnerabilities in a menu; it's reliable, and it keeps the gaze away from the rawness. I had promised myself that I would not make the same mistakes, that I would not confuse appetite for love. Yet appetite, I found, is a patient teacher with a knack for revealing what you most want to hide.
On a rainy afternoon in the museum library, we found the book she had promised me: a slim, leather-bound volume of family recipes collected from women who cooked in the shadow of wars and weddings. She handed it to me like a relic. We sat in a corner with the rain thrumming against the tall windows and let the pages open between us like a map. Her hand brushed mine as we turned a brittle page. The friction sparked a warmth that thickened blood into a language of its own.
"Read this to me," she said suddenly, closing the book as if daring me.
I cleared my throat and read the first recipe, my voice low in the hush of the library. The directions were not merely culinary; they were instructions on how to survive. "Fold the onions until they lean in like confessions," I read, and she laughed, softer than the cardinals.
"You always make food into confession," she said, looking at me with an almost tender reproach. "Do you think it makes it truer?"
"Sometimes like a seasoning—yes. Sometimes it tastes better for being said aloud."
We talked then, not about food but about why we built walls. She told me about a long-ago love that had dissolved because one of them—she didn't say which—had thought the other would wait like the city waits for dawn. I told her about a wedding that had been more ceremony than covenant, about the thinness I felt after it. Two stories of patience and error, colliding into a kind of mutual mercy.
A week of small rituals began to define us: mornings with bread from a boulangerie she recommended; afternoons in the museum where she walked me through paintings like someone unveiling a favorite dish; evenings with me experimenting on a new sauce. Each ritual increased the cost of restraint. We shared confidences like we were sharing courses—slowly, each revelation a palate cleanser for the next.
Our touches grew bolder by fraction. A finger across a knuckle became the weight of her palm on my thigh. We were honest enough to say when things felt dangerous. "I do not want to be a recipe you are trying out," she said once, sharp as a lemon peel.
"Nor a lesson," I agreed. "Nor a liaison to be tasted only in darkness."
We stopped attempting to promise ourselves anything harder than discretion. But the longer the storm outside persisted, the more the pressure built behind those small, controlled gestures. Each delayed contact felt like a slow ferment; the atmosphere around us thickened.
There were times when I mistook her withdrawal for indifference. Once, I arrived at the museum to find she was late because of a curator's emergency. I waited in the cloakroom, rain still pouring like an old tape of weather, and when she finally arrived she was flushed with exertion and apology. She explained, breathless, that a donor had arrived with letters that possibly related to a lost recipe. She was animated and present and utterly consumed by the investigation. I felt neglected, ridiculous for wanting to crawl into jealousy. I let it pass, not because I had resigned myself but because I wanted this—what we had—to survive.
And yet little injuries accumulate. A look held too long between two people at the museum; the closeness of a male colleague who made crude jokes about American chefs; the way she sometimes used distance as a shield. The possibility of adding complication—of becoming attached to something that might be temporary—made me hesitate. I was practicing a new form of self-preservation, one that wasn't built entirely of solitude.
It was in these weeks that we began to exchange secrets the way servers exchange plates—quickly, without fuss. She told me about a childhood fear of storms; she told me that she kept a small jar of dried lavender on her windowsill to ward off insomnia. I told her about the first time I burned a roux to a bitter black and how my grandmother had taught me to scrape the loss away and begin again. She listened like a friend and like a lover-in-waiting, and every conversation seemed to approximate a confession that might make the other more necessary.
Our near-misses became almost ritual: a curtain- call that arrived too soon, a phone, a guilt that could not be ignored. Each time we stopped before falling, it felt as if the rain learned a new rhythm and the city withheld its thunder in sympathy. Appetite matured into something more complicated—into wanting the person as much as the act. That wanting camped at the edges of conversation, turning small gestures into monuments.
The fourth week, the city held an evening festival for a retrospective at the museum. The air smelled of frying chestnuts and electric warmth. It was the sort of event designed for glances and half-spoken compliments, and I went with the intention of being invisible. She wore a dress the color of a bruise right before it becomes wine; it hugged her with a gentle audacity. Under the gallery lights she seemed less like a woman and more like a decision.
We shared a glass of wine—red, heavy—and wandered through rooms lit with paintings and people intent on being seen. At some point, between a sculpture and a painting of a storm-lashed coastline, she leaned into me and the space between us shortened to the width of a breath. Her perfume, something citrus edged with smoke, unfurled against my skin. I felt the hush again, deeper this time: the gravity that pulls two bodies into the same orbit.
She whispered, "Do you ever feel like you are waiting for permission to be yourself?"
"Yes," I said without thinking. "And sometimes I give it to myself. I also have a tendency to be very careful with other people's things."
Her laugh against my ear was a small, wet sound like a bridge releasing a tension. I reached a hand to tuck a stray curl behind her ear and paused, breathless, when she tilted her head in a way that gave me an uncontained invitation. The press of our bodies in the darkened doorway of the gallery was a mistake of the most deliberate kind. We kissed then—not a quick municipal peck but a slow exploration that tasted of wine and the salt of rain. My hands found the small of her back, and her fingers threaded into the hair at the base of my neck. There was no urgency in it, only the sense of two people appreciating a rare meal.
Before the evening could become anything more intimate, an alarm suddenly blared—a visitor had triggered a sensor, absurd and mechanical, and staff came rushing, lights bathing us in discomfort. We were pulled into the light like nocturnal birds dragged into daylight. The moment fractured. Later, outside beneath a canopy of umbrellas, she told me she had somewhere to be. We parted with the kind of kiss that promised 'soon' but left 'soon' indefinite.
I floated home that night with the memory of her mouth like a ribbon curling inside my ribs. The rain pressed against the window of my tiny apartment as if to remind me of what had been delayed. I slept poorly, dreaming in fragments of her voice giving me recipes for everything I had forgotten to want.
ACT 3 — The Climax & Resolution
The rain did not ease. If anything, it intensified, as though Paris itself had decided that impatience would not be rewarded. On a day when the sky was the color of pewter and the streets shone like wet copper, she sent me a message: meet me at the Pont des Arts at four. Short. Unadorned. An invitation that suggested plan without specifying the rules.
I arrived early, standing on the bridge that sells other people's love in locks. The river below moved, dark and obstinate. The city smelled of kettle and wet wool. I watched people drift by—some running shelterless, some with umbrellas tied like flags. When she appeared, she wore a soaked pea coat and a hat that had become cockeyed from the weather. Her hair was plastered into a frame for her face. She looked as if the rain had sculpted her into honest desire.
She took my hand as if it had been waiting for her. The touch was not tentative this time. She stepped closer until her shoulder brushed mine, and we walked in silence toward a small hotel she said she had reserved. It was the sort of place I would never have chosen on my own—softly antique, heavy drapes, a faint note of tobacco and cedar that made it feel like a safe haven for small transgressions.
The room was lit by the flat light of a late afternoon, rain streaking diagonally across the glass. She stood by the window and looked out at the city as though measuring it. When she turned, there was something in her face that no rain had blurred: a decision that wanted to be carried out with reverence, not haste.
"I don't want this to be an experiment," she said, meeting my eyes. "We have waited long enough. If we are to do this, do it as if it matters."
"Everything matters to me," I said. Honesty tasted like lemon on my tongue.
She smiled, something fragile and feral at once. Then she did the unexpected: she walked to me and laid a hand against my chest as if to feel the rhythm of my pulse. Her fingers were warm and steady, and the gesture had the simplicity of someone checking the oven's temperature.
I reached for her then, and there was no retreat. The smallness of the room sealed us in a private wet globe of air. My hands found the line of her coat and worked at the buttons with a clumsy reverence. I wanted to savor the removal of each layer like a course that deserved appreciation. When I finally peeled the coat from her shoulders, the scarf fell away and revealed her neck, a pale length like porcelain warmed by a kiln. I inhaled the scent of her—bergamot, something floral, and the faint tang of coffee from earlier.
She kissed me as if she were translating her body into words I could understand. Her mouth was warm and precise. My hands roamed the planes of her back, memorizing the map of her under-clothes and the soft quiver where nerves met skin. Her blouse slid from her like a slow confession, and when I backed her to the bed she made no resistance; it was surrender without defeat.
We began like gardeners at the first thaw—gentle, respectful of what had been planted. The slow burn that had defined our acquaintance became a heat that burned with purpose. I learned the contours of her as if discovering a new cuisine. The softness of her waist beneath my palm, the fine down at the small of her belly, the way she inhaled sharply when I brushed the inside of her thigh with my fingers. There were no hurried movements—only the meticulous devotion of someone who knows the value of slow heat.
When our clothing was finally set aside, the room felt densely intimate, lined with the smells of rain, citrus, and a faint trailing of rosemary from the restaurant I had passed earlier that day. I traced a slow line along her hipbone, watching her close her eyes and give herself to sensation. Her hands were busy exploring me in return, and every touch was a punctuation mark—a clarification of intent.
We spoke in fragments: confessions and small exclamations. She told me, breathless, that she had wanted me since the day we reached for the book of rivers. I confessed how often I had rehearsed the feel of her mouth on mine. We let the conversation fall away and listened only to the two of us breathing as if we were learning the rhythm of the rain anew.
I kissed the plane of her collarbone and slowly lowered the line of my mouth until I reached her breast. It was not a hurried touch but an exploration—my lips following the geography of her like a chef taste-testing a simmering sauce to read its soul. Her skin yielded beneath my mouth, and she sounded then—a soft intake, an honest, unshaped sound that clued me to the fact that we had crossed from flavor into hunger.
She pushed a hand against the back of my head and guided me, there was an urgency now, but it was under the umbrella of tenderness. Her chest rose and fell like a tide, calling for me to answer. I took my time. I wanted this to be remembered not only for its intensity but for the carefulness of its attention.
When we joined fully, the moment held the kind of sacredness that comes from mutual recognition. There is a point in every encounter where the erotic becomes the language of care; our bodies spoke it fluently. I watched the play of expression across her face—the way the light of the window traced her cheekbones, the way her lashes trembled. Our movements were at once urgent and deliberate, the slow-burn finally finding its proper flame.
We changed positions like cooks changing pots—always mindful of temperature and the state of the dish. The first time she wrapped her legs around my hips and pulled me in, the sensation was not merely sexual; it was a claim, a conversational marker that said: I want you here, in a way that extends beyond the body. I felt my own inclinations align around something deeper. She rode me with a steady, meditative rhythm that read like a practiced recipe—no waste, no excess, every motion a seasoning.
We paused often, not from fatigue but to study each other's reaction. When I followed her mouth with mine, she tasted of salted dark chocolate and the faint citrus of the afternoon tea we had shared. She tasted like rain—cleaned and renewed. I wanted to memorize the taste as I might memorize the way certain peppers change a gumbo's aftertaste.
Words slipped in between us: "Stay," she whispered once, the syllable threaded with longing. "Do not go back to cooking me only to be done away."
"I don't plan to leave," I said, and in the quiet that followed I pledged my attention as if it were an ingredient I could not withhold.
Our climax unfurled with that kind of mutual consent—slow, patient, and intense. It was not cameraworthy; it was private and human, the culmination of weeks of delayed gestures and confessions. We trembled into a shared shudder, a tidal release like a sauce finally achieving its glossy finish. The world outside the window was still rain and river, indifferent and unsurprised.
We lay after like two people after a long labor—spent, humming softly. I traced idle patterns on her skin and felt the heat of her shoulder beneath my palm. We spoke then, in the sticky, honest language of afterglow. She told me about the fear that had kept her waiting: fear that passion was always performative, fear that a lover's hands could be transitory. I confessed my fear: that I had learned to protect my heart by writing recipes and never leaving room for improvisation.
"Improvisation is how you learn new flavors," she said, smiling against my chest. "Sometimes you burn the roux, Gideon. But sometimes you make a new color."
"Sometimes you make a new love," I said.
She hummed. "Yes. Sometimes."
We slept then, wrapped in the soft hammock of exhaustion and rain. I dreamed, for once, not of recipes but of a small Louisiana kitchen where two people argued gently about the amount of cayenne to add. I dreamed of mornings where bread was an excuse for conversation. When I woke, the light had grown thin and soft; the rain had either eased or become so steady that it no longer announced itself. She had fallen asleep with her head on my chest, hair a dark fan across my sternum. I felt the rhythm of her breathing and wanted to map every rise and fall.
We moved slowly, the world of logistics catching up to desire—who would get breakfast, whether we would see each other again, the practicalities of two lives that had been kept separate by habit and geography. She pressed a finger to my lips as if to suspend the list of questions.
"Stay another day," she murmured.
"I can rearrange my notes," I said, which was true. I could also perhaps rearrange more than notes. The idea spread across me like light on a wet street: tentative, bright, and absolutely something to pursue.
We spent the day together, moving through the city with an ease that felt like getting used to a new ingredient. We walked beneath the umbrellas of Montmartre, shared a late lunch of oysters and bread, and returned to the hotel to make plans that were not guarantees but promises to keep trying. Each time our hands touched—over coffee, over the map of Paris, on the strap of a bag—it felt like marking a new recipe with approval.
The weeks that followed did not belong to a movie montage. There were complications: my work called me back to New Orleans sooner than I'd hoped; she had responsibilities that made travel difficult. We negotiated time like two cooks splitting a rare truffle; we found the spots where flavor concentrated. We wrote letters—real paper letters sometimes—wherein we described meals we wanted to cook together and places we wanted to be. I returned to Louisiana twice in those months and found myself measuring my dishes against how her hands would have taken them. She came to New Orleans once and let the humidity rearrange her hair. She loved the way my grandmother's kitchen smelled; she loved the way people welcomed her with the same curiosity she had learned to expect from books.
Our relationship became a slow-cooked stew—heating from the edges, never rushed, reduced to its sweet center. We argued, too—about time, about priorities, about what we were willing to sacrifice. But those arguments were honest and not infants of convenience. We learned to ask for what we needed, to be explicit without damning softness. Sometimes the old wounds reappeared: my instinct to retreat into menus, her instinct to analyze feelings as if they were essays. We learned, clumsily at first, to navigate those tendencies.
Months later, on a rain-scrubbed evening back in Paris, we returned to La Rumeur. The owner, the unpaid-bill-faced man, had not changed. We bought the same book of rivers to remind ourselves of the beginning. She slid her fingers into mine as if to say, with small solemnity, that we were still choosing one another.
We did not pretend our union was simple. It was not. It required work—not only in the manner of a recipe that needs tending but also in the manner of two people who decide that comfort is not the same as complacency. We practiced patience as an art, and passion as a craft. The slow-burn that had tormented us became our chosen method: we learned to let the flame touch us without scorching.
On another rainy afternoon, years hence, I sometimes imagine we will sit once more in that small salon across the street. The radiators will hiss their old songs. We will prefer a table that knows the impression of our elbows. Our fingers will still find each other in the dark, like a spice we never get tired of. And when the storm comes, as storms always do, we will not pretend to be untroubled. We will only know how to make the most of the weather together.
Sometimes hunger is literal, and sometimes it is metaphor. Paris taught me both. It taught me the patience of a good sauce, the courage of a well-timed flame, and the truth that the best meals—and the best loves—are those you tend and let transform you. Camille taught me to translate desire into something actionable, and I taught her to taste life with fewer holdbacks. We were not perfect; we were human, and hungry, and often delightfully late.
I still write about food, sometimes about storms and more often about the moments when a recipe becomes a life. There is a photograph on my kitchen wall of the Pont des Arts in a rain that looks like forgiveness. She appears in it, hat cocked, mouth in the polite beginning of a smile. I am there too, hair darker in the rain, an old raincoat half-unbuttoned. We stand close enough for the photograph to blur the space between us.
There is a tenderness in the way our lives folded around one another, a tenderness that I measure now when I stand over a pot and taste for salt. It is the same tenderness I felt when she first placed her hand on my chest: a gesture of permission. The slow-burn didn't end in a single collision; it endured, settled into a glow that warms from within.
On rainy afternoons when I am not traveling, I sometimes make gumbo for two. I watch the steam and think of long conversations, of small books, of a woman who taught me that the best flavor comes when you are brave enough to let something finish on the stove. When she enters the kitchen I let the food cool a bit and make room for the more urgent work: the pressing of mouths, the tasting of one another, the honest, simple act of learning to feed someone else and be fed in return.
The rain keeps its own counsel. It has a way of insisting that things be honest, that their edges soften. We learned to let it teach us, and when it arrived on Rue des Roses that afternoon, it brought more than wet streets and cold shoulders. It brought a possibility that, once embraced, showed me how hunger can become home.
— Gideon Broussard