He occasionally had it delivered to his apartment when he worked late. Other times, he cooked; he wasn’t without some skill in the kitchen. There were three recipes in his culinary repertoire. He could heat up a can of soup, concoct a passable resemblance to scrambled eggs, and his favorite – he ...
You mean, Michael? That’s who you mean?” She keeps looking at the walls, not facing me, avoiding my gaze. Her voice is almost automatic and it seems as though she’s reading from a book, when she answers. “Yes, yes, of course, Michael. Michael.” It’s not fear, or maybe it is. Maybe it’s the unce...