Lunch on a Saturday has no end time.

The table is set before anyone asks. Bread torn, not sliced. Oil poured slowly, without measurement. Conversation that trails into the afternoon like smoke from a candle that no one thought to blow out.

This is the ritual of the long lunch — unhurried, abundant, lit by the kind of golden light that makes everything feel like it's already a memory worth keeping.

Grassy oil for the bread. Flame for the room. The meal stretches. So does the afternoon.