For Sunday lunch Petar bought ingredients for eight people, although only his daughter and the woman he was dating were coming. His daughter Iva was twenty six and had her own apartment. Biljana was forty nine and disliked being called a future family member before anyone asked whether she wanted more coffee. Petar believed good food would explain to everyone what he could not say without excessive significance.

Iva arrived first and found him checking the potatoes for the third time. She asked whether he needed help, and he assigned setting the table, adding an unnecessary remark about how beautifully Biljana folded napkins. "Then she can fold them when she arrives," Iva replied, not particularly seriously. Petar immediately heard resistance. He began explaining that nobody would replace her mother, although nobody had suggested it. Iva put down the forks and said she had come to meet a person, not defend a boundary he was drawing across the table.

Biljana brought a bakery pie and admitted she had not made it. Petar nervously said she was an excellent cook, as though repairing her reputation. "Sometimes," she replied. "Today I wanted to read until it was time to leave." Iva laughed and asked which book. While they talked, Petar forgot the bread in the oven. Smoke brought all three into the kitchen, where finally something happened outside his carefully imagined warmth.

Lunch was good and excessive. Iva and Biljana did not instantly become close, but managed conversation without him translating. After his daughter left, Biljana said she had liked her, but being with him had been unusually difficult. She felt like an applicant interviewing for a position she had never requested. Petar admitted fearing any awkwardness would mean the relationship had no future. Biljana took a plate from his hand and asked him to sit before he tried tidying away the conversation again.

The next time, just the two of them went out. Petar did not recount Iva's opinion like a score. They discussed their weekend and planned a short trip. Iva messaged that she still had the potato container and could return it the following week. He showed Biljana the message. "See," she said, "lunch did have a sequel." He laughed and put away his phone. On the table stood only two glasses, precisely as many as he needed that evening to be happy.