15.02.07 - 12:03 p.m.
i don't ordinarily volunteer to run the gauntlet, but last evening i made a lasagne that would feed approximately eight people and delivered it warm, wrapped in a tablecloth. i nodded at the livingroom and headed for the kitchen, past furniture that was once mine. i cleared a spot on the counter, set the food down, hugged my hostess and said i'm so sorry, dar. the nickname practically fell out of my mouth in a cloud of dust, unused for years.
i am trying not to think, said the boy who challenged me to morning drum-offs that left my forearms aching, who routinely ate all my cheese.