“I just got home from work,” he said. “I need to clean up and eat something—hey, if you want to come over now, I’ll make you dinner.”

“That sounds… nice.”

“Are you okay? You sound a little funny.”

“I’m good. Let me just finish up here and I’ll be over. Half hour?”

“Cool. See you then.”

Adam’s tiny kitchen could scarcely fit the two of us, him cooking and me standing over his shoulder, watching. The walls had once been blue but were smeared with grease stains and the cabinets and shelves were encrusted with generations of paint. The room smelled of olive oil and garlic with an undertone of Raid. Adam removed a Tupperware container from his vintage ’50s refrigerator, uncovered it, and forked a couple of chicken breasts into the pan of sizzling oil. He seared them, removed them to a plate, added a nob of butter to the pan, turned down the burner and tossed in a big fistful of shitake mushrooms.

“Don’t you get enough of cooking at the diner?” I asked him.

“I like to cook and here I can make what I want, not that slop we feed to the customers.”

“What do you do, spit in the soup?”

“Only yours. And it’s not spit.”

“That’s gross.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining the last time you gave me a blowjob,” he replied with a smile in his voice. “Too busy swallowing.”

I swatted his butt. “Fuck you.”

“Later. Right now, I’m cooking and you’re in the way. Go put on some music.”

“Any special requests?”

He filled a pot with water, dumped salt into it, and slid it onto a burner. “Surprise me.”

I watched him move between sink and stove, open a packet of spaghetti, and throw me a smiling glance over his shoulder. The simple domesticity of the moment twisted my heart. I embraced him from behind, wrapped my arms around his big chest and held him tight. He turned his head to the side for a sloppy kiss. When I pulled away, he was smiling but his eyes were thoughtful.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, why do you ask?”

“Just getting a vibe.”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay. Put on some tunes. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”