“Lydia, could you pass me the-” I turned to look at her across the table and froze. She was waving a triangle of quesadilla in the air like a flag with one hand while the other swirled around in the pool of sour cream that was left on her plate.

She looked up at me and smiled lazily, her hair hanging over her face in rebellious strands. She attempted to maneuver the quesadilla into her mouth and missed, smearing a white spiral on her face that finally ended at her mouth.

“Lydia…” I sighed. “Lydia, please. Try to be more ladylike when you eat.”

She responded by fluttering her eyelashes while stuffing the rest of the quesadilla into her mouth, painting her hair on the way, and then she tilted her head to the side and delicately licked off each of her fingers and extended her hand. “Yes, your majesty. You may now kiss my hand.”

“I’ll pass,” I said and handed her a fork.

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