She continued to drool onto my thigh while I took my first bite.

Sometimes a memory will overtake you so unexpectedly it’s as if you’ve been instantly transported back in time. I was eight years old and Tasha was at our apartment in Wellesley after school, and we’d just eaten some pork buns. My dad had brought them back from Chinatown in Boston and reheated them for us.

Afterward, when my dad shut himself into his office to write, we went into my bedroom to play house. Tasha wanted to be the mommy, and even though I didn’t want to be the daddy, I told her I would because Tasha only ever wanted to be the mommy.

Tasha said, “You have to come home from work, and I’ll bring you a drink,” and I knew this was because after school we sometimes watched a TV show in which the dad came home from work, calling, “Honey, I’m home!” The mom always appeared in an apron and greeted him at the door with a kiss and a cocktail. I couldn’t get enough of watching the dad settle his kids’ inconsequential arguments while the mom served up a casserole dinner. The show had been mesmerizing to me because it felt like the opposite of my parents. They were always rushing here and there, packing suitcases, bringing home takeout, and closing doors behind which they had tense-sounding conversations. And now they were divorced. The parents on the TV show were exotic in comparison, and always, in every episode, they kissed each other hello.

Maybe that’s why I suggested to Tasha, “You have to kiss me when I come home.”

In my memory, I came through the door of my bedroom and called out, “Honey, I’m home!”

Tasha, waiting inside my room, came to greet me holding a plastic tumbler full of water. She beamed as she said, “Welcome home, dear.” She had tied one of my sweatshirts around her waist with the sleeves, like an apron, and I had to put down the empty leather briefcase we’d borrowed from my dad’s closet before I took the tumbler from her. Then I approached Tasha for the kiss, and right before I leaned in I knew I shouldn’t kiss her like this, and I put my hand over her mouth to create a barrier, my palm against her lips, and I kissed the back of my hand.

I had forgotten about our game until that night in Joan’s kitchen, with Analemma still drooling on my leg, and the pork bun steaming on the napkin in front of me. I couldn’t eat any more. I fed the rest to Analemma and went to bed, still hungry.

Chapter 30