She thought about the elderly woman in the bakery, with her simple cakes decorated with such care. She thought about her mother's diner, where even the chipped plates had been scrubbed clean and the tables always had fresh flowers in old mason jars. That had been presentation too, hadn't it? Just a different kind.
Maybe the issue wasn't presentation itself. Maybe it was dishonest presentation. Beauty that promised something it couldn't deliver.
But if the food was good—truly good—then making it beautiful wasn't lying. It was translation. It was helping people see what was already there.
Marron closed the book and sat in the quiet library, watching dust motes drift through the lamplight. Around her, the city hummed and glowed, relentless in its beauty.
