“But that’s just it, isn’t it? We’re in this spectacular city where you can eat whatever you want whenever you want without ever having to cook or wash a dish, and we don’t have to worry about fixing disposals or washers and driers in our apartments, because they aren’t there to fix, and I’m loving my life there for a very particular set of freedoms. Then one day I find out there’s a whole subset of individuals who actually want to stuff their cabinets with appliances. So I’m thinking either they have a whole lot of counter space, or they exist on a totally different plane. Obviously, it’s both: counter space and different plane. And it’s absurd and embarrassing to admit how eye-opening this was to me, because of course we were all on different planes, but for some reason, I could actually see the break whenever I walked down a housewares aisle. New York became prismatic.”

“I can only imagine what those security guards made of you.”

“Never mind.”

“No, I get it.”

“It was just weird, okay? Still is, a little. None of that comes naturally to me.”

“But you’re good at it.”

“But I hate it.” She licks her fingers and pinches the flaming wick of a tea candle in a votive between us. A ribbon of black smoke rises from her thumb and forefinger. She lets go of the wick, rubs her finger and thumb together and opens her hand, admiring the black smudges. “Do you know who was really good at it, though?”

“No,” I say, and I almost guess, because Elizabeth’s use of the past tense makes me think she must be talking about Stuart, who absolutely would have collected tea cozies and napkin rings—North of Blue Eye, deep inside your marvel cave, Jesus Christ—although his kitchen crap would have to have been handcrafted gifts from artsy friends. Never mass retail, not for Stuart. Before I can guess, though, and before Elizabeth can tell me, our server returns to sell us dessert.

“Sure,” Elizabeth says without pause. “Coconut crème brûlée, please.”

I decline but ask for two coffees, two spoons, and the check. “Who was good at it?”

“Shae.”

“Oh?” All things being equal, I’d rather hear about the tragic figure from her youth than about her ex-husband, if only by a small margin, so I say, “Was she?”