I find Clara in the kitchen, dressed in yesterday's business attire, her hair pulled back in a severe bun. She's making coffee with the practiced efficiency of someone who needs caffeine to function. Dark circles under her eyes suggest she slept as poorly as I did.
"Good morning," I say, walking to the counter.
She doesn't look up. "There's nothing good about it."
I reach for the plate of toast she's prepared, taking a piece and biting into it. The butter is perfectly spread, the bread golden brown.
"That's my breakfast," Clara snaps, finally meeting my eyes.
"Was," I correct, taking another bite. "Now it's mine."
Her jaw tightens. "You have some nerve."
"You broke into my bedroom. I think we're even."
Clara slams her coffee mug down hard enough to slosh liquid onto the marble counter. "I didn't break into anything! Your friend offered me a place to stay. I was trying to be polite by making breakfast."
"And I'm being polite by eating it."
