He defined this stage of his life as “Post-transition” and he occasionally sensed that the seam was about to split, flooding him with everything he had cut off. He built higher walls and deeper holes, mine shafts, sparkling lakes, tiny cottages with underground escape routes, chalets, so many spaces to stash himself. When his thoughts approached the “Before-edge,” a shiver of despair shocked them back and there was nothing like work to remind him that he was thriving, with insides more textured than the succulent terrariums popping up in every coffee shop with their burro’s tails and cactus flowers, screaming about how much could bloom in brittle conditions.

He walked along the stepping-stones. Inside, the house was still, clean, polished, resounding. He took off his shoes, frowned at the large Chinese floor vase where the Eighteen Luohan were depicted up on a perilous cliff. In the front hall he ignored the table of family photographs and made his way along a “Persian” rug, which seemed dangerously close to generic “Oriental.” He found them out on the patio, cutting vegetables.

“Hi, parents.”

“Hey, honey.”

His mom got up and kissed the top of his head. His dad put a hand on his shoulder.

They looked more worn than he would like, his mom especially. She appeared to be shrinking into her formless flax clothes. He almost wished she would do Botox or something so he wouldn’t have to confront the aging process. Were they stressed about something or just old?

“Saul isn’t coming?”

“No, he had plans.”

“Want some seltzer or wine or something?”

“Yah, sure, I’ll get it.”

He grabbed a seltzer and did his quick snooping, looking through their mail, scanning their to-do lists, just making sure everything was in order, that no one had any urgent doctor’s appointments.

Back outside, the sun rested above his parents’ heads.

“How was your trip?”

“Fabulous. Have you looked over the pictures we sent?” his mom asked.

He had not.

“We ended up at these ruins with this couple we met at our hotel and had the most delicious cold spread of cheese and bread and olives. I mean, it was the simplest, purest food. You could actually taste the care that they put into it.”

He watched his father nod at her description.

His mom started in on the artisanal cheese from goats who grazed on Greek spiny spurge, juniper, rosemary, and Aphyllanthes.

“Wow, wonder what sort of notes that diet produced.” He did love geeking out on food with his parents.

“Bri—Blithe, we got you something,” she said.

She went into the kitchen and came back with a brown paper bag. Inside, an unlabeled green bottle. Ancient olive oil.

“Thanks, you guys. I can use it in the lemon olive oil cake that I’m trying to perfect.”

They all sat down and ate cold spread reminiscent of the parents’ Roman meals. His mom had bought organic roses to top the mascarpone.