M. F. K. Fisher

The Art of Eating

She smoked all through the meal, which none of us was doing, and once, when she let her pretty arm fall towards Chexbres, and the fingers unfold commandingly, I saw him pick up the cigarette box and offer it to her, so that she had to lift her hand again and choose one for herself, and I knew that he was deeply angry with her, in spite of his wisdom and tolerance.
      The rest of us were disjointing our little brown birds and eating them in our fingers, as is only proper on a summer night among friends in a friendly room. But the girl cut one little piece of one side of the breast, one little piece of the other, and then pushed the plump carcase almost fretfully away. She picked a few late summer peas from the vegetables on her plate, and ate a little bread, and then asked Chexbres for coffee.