Summary:

"Do you like spicy food?' David asks. American spicy was always questionable. Ilya's been to restaurants where the pinnacle of spice was ominous salty, orange, vinegar-y sludge souped over chicken wings. But he's also had his fair share of dinners cooked by Marlow's wife who put exotic peppers in rice. When he tried to cool the fire burning an ulcer in his belly with her homemade drink, he was disastrously surprised by the added torture of ginger down his throat. "Yes," he lies, coolly. Because now was not the time to be an asshole. David Hollander just watched him press his son up against a glass door and caress him in ways no parent needs to see. Ilya can take the stupid gamble on what the man calls spicy.