I wore sweatpants and an old T-shirt, my hair in a knot on the top of my head. I had turned off my cell phone and powered down my computer. I stood over a large metal pot that bubbled on the burner, steam fogging my glasses, stirring with a wooden spoon. This soup, which I had been meaning to make for weeks, was a thick concoction of canned tomatoes and chickpeas, rosemary and garlic, chicken stock and a pinch of sugar, salt, and pepper. It was a simple soup, a nourishing one. I had forgotten how much I loved the rhythmic lull of cutting board and knife, the burble and pop of dinner simmering on the stove.This was the first Saturday night I had stayed home alone in many weeks and the first meal I had cooked for myself in even longer. After David left, that spiked sense of panic had receded, leaving the depression to bloom. I was filled with a foreign exhaustion. A deep, dark lethargy. I slept long and hard, glacial nights without dreams. In the mornings, I had to force myself to move. This slow, creeping depression no doubt came in part because I was lonely.
