I’m not an idiot, she scowled.

He placed five large yellow onions on the cutting board.

Okay, medium-size pieces, please.

What are we making? she asked.

Home fries.

She’d never heard of them. He told her what they were. The sun glowed through the windows. She pushed hair behind her ear and started cutting. Kevin went back to the sink. He tried not to watch but couldn’t stop himself. The blanket kept slipping off her shoulders, and she was doing it all wrong, cutting the onions before even peeling the skin. He bit his tongue; she was going to cut herself; he was sure of it. He had to say something. He wiped his hands on his apron and came around the counter.

Here, he said, let me show you.

I can do it.

I know you can, but there’s a trick I learned years ago.

He gestured for the knife, and she handed it back reluctantly, then stood beside him with a hand on her hip.

First you slice off the ends. It’s a round object, and you want it to be stable, and the ends you don’t eat anyhow.

He cut off the bottom and the top of the onion and flicked the discards aside with the back of the knife.

Then you want to peel the skin, like this.

He made a small slit down the length of the onion and slid the outside layer off with a finger, then sliced the onion in half and set the two naked hemispheres flat on the board.

Now it’s stable and you can do anything to it.

Anything?

He looked at her; she was smirking.

You know what I mean.

Okay, okay, she said impatiently and motioned for the knife.

He handed it back, the handle toward her, and returned to the stove.

They worked side by side for a while in silence, Kevin glancing up every now and then to monitor her. He put the potatoes on to parboil. Cracked eggs in a bowl. Chopped green pepper. The blanket fell off her shoulders again.

Can I get you a sweater? he suggested.

I’m fine, she said.

You sure?

I’m fine. She glared.

He let it go. She was biting her bottom lip in concentration, sniffling back tears, wiping her nose on her forearm.

You can do it in front of running water, that sometimes helps, he offered.

She didn’t answer. He let her be. He wondered about her brother, her parents. He asked where in Holland she was from. She told him the south, near Belgium, in the town where Philips built the first lightbulb. He said he didn’t know where that was, and she drew the shape of Holland on the top of the cutting board with the tip of the knife.

Right there. She pressed at the spot. We live there.

Oh, Kevin said, and resisted telling her not to press the point of the blade into the board.