The Kitchen Window

I had promised to cook for Mara and had spent most of Tuesday thinking of ways to make the promise less specific.

I could make a salad. I could buy something cooked and put it in a pan. I could text her that the oven had stopped working, although she had never seen my oven and might reasonably offer to fix it. In the end I made the pasta my mother had taught me when I left home: tomatoes, garlic, too much butter, nothing that could pretend to be impressive. I set two plates on the table and watched the sauce darken while Mara climbed the stairs.

She arrived at seven with a loaf of bread, as threatened, and a bag of lemons.

“What are those for?” I asked.

“I passed a shop.”

“Are we making something with them?”

“I don’t know. You said you’d cook. I wanted to bring…