Their table is situated next to a koi pond, off from the main cluster of seating. Some parents overlook a couple of kindergarten aged kids, some retirees sip their coffee, some college-age couples sit in comfortable silence on their phones with empty sushi trays in front of them. There is music playing from a very distant speaker and a looping female voice funneled through that sits just beyond the scope of human hearing, like she's announcing sealion feeding hours and reminders not to run from the depths of a cave.

Clark is already making a :/ face as he folds a pizza slice to eat, tolerant of slushie margaritas and criticism and certainly not waiting for his time to reply before he takes a bite. Omf. The quorn (with a q, Bruce) is fine, the 'cheese' is not great. But also, not worse than what Clark remembers as if in a distant dream like maybe five months ago coming out on normal food court pizzas, anyway. If questioned on the moral hypocrisy of his efforts, he honestly has little in the way of argument.

It just feels better. Speaking of feelings—

"Well, we still have time," he says, after the bite is swallowed. "How's your—what is that?"