One evening, I returned from work and found her standing in front of my refrigerator.
She was holding a container of something unidentifiable.
“Mark, what is this?”
I dropped my keys into the bowl.
“Food.”
“I gathered that.”
“Then we’re making progress.”
She turned the container around.
“It’s labeled February.”
I considered this.
“Which February?”
“It’s October.”
“Ah. So it’s vintage.”
She stared at me.
“Were you raised by wolves?”
“No. But judging by your cooking, I may have been raised by someone who wanted me to appreciate other people’s kitchens.”
She laughed and dropped the container into the trash.
“Honestly, I don’t know how you survived before I arrived.”
“Microwave. Frozen pizza. Occasional apples.”
“That’s not a diet. That’s a cry for help.”
“I’m beginning to understand why Jenna always said you were intimidating.”
Sarah’s smile faded slightly.
“What else did Jenna say about me?”
I leaned against the counter.
