The Grease Line

"You smell like gin and regret," Wes says.

We are leaning against the marble bar at the back of the screening room, the sizzle reel for the food awards playing silently behind us. He’s loosened his tie, the silk hanging loose around a neck corded with tension, and his eyes are fixed on my mouth before they slide up to meet mine. I know he’s tired. There’s a faint smudge of soot on his cuff, the kind that doesn’t wash out, evidence of the fire that shut down his kitchen an hour after he told the *Times* my technique was "derivative." I checked the local feeds while he was speaking. I always check. It’s part of the job, and I chose this rivalry because I like having a target.

"You’re just bitter because your sous-chef set the walk-in fridge on fire," I say, taking a slow sip of my drink. The gin is cheap and burns the way I want it to. "It’s a chaotic kitchen for a man who claims to value precision."