Our first serious disagreement concerned my cooking.
She found me attempting to prepare pasta one evening.
She stood in the kitchen doorway, watching me pour what appeared to be half a box of salt into a pot.
“Mark.”
“I’m busy.”
“What are you doing?”
“Making dinner.”
“Are you trying to preserve the pasta for winter?”
I looked at the pot.
Then at her.
“It’s a family recipe.”
“Your family must have been very thirsty.”
She gently took the salt from my hand.
“Move.”
I stepped aside.
“Are you always this bossy?”
“Only when someone’s about to poison himself.”
“Good. I was worried you were becoming attached to me.”
She paused.
It was the first time either of us had said anything that came close to acknowledging the strange new atmosphere between us.
Then she turned toward the stove.
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
I smiled.
“Too late.”
She made a wonderful dinner.
