I poured myself a glass of wine and began to sift through the produce: mushrooms, garlic, carrots, bell peppers, onions, parsley, and basil. I brought the latter to my nose, inhaling deeply, the same motion I had seen my mother make a hundred times.

Jack was in the living room, working on a painting using only shades of red.

I had spent the afternoon cleaning the entire house around him, scrubbing the floors, polishing the wineglasses, digging through the drawer of silverware for our matching forks and knives, and folding cloth napkins into little hats.

William and Jack hadn’t met. William had only just returned from his most recent deployment.

I cubed the vegetables between smoking cigarettes and snorting lines of coke. I opened a can of crushed tomatoes and dumped everything into the cast iron pot, plopping the raw chicken thighs into the liquid before sprinkling dried oregano and red pepper flakes over the top. I jammed it into the oven, shook off the oven mitts, and railed another line.

By the time William arrived, I was on fast-forward.

I heard the knocking—three succinct raps—and ran to the door, threw it open, and leapt into his arms. “Will!”

His curly hair was buzzed down; only a coating of blond stubble remained. He was freckled and pink-cheeked from the cold, wearing a sapphire button-down and carrying a bottle of red wine under his arm.

Jack was straightening up, sealing tubes of paint, as we entered the living room.

“William, this is Jack,” I announced, motioning from one to the other. “Jack, William. William, Jack.”

Jack wiped his hand on his shirt before extending it to William. “Nice to meet you, man.”

“Likewise.”

They shook.

“Who’s hungry?” I shouted, smelling something burning.

I darted into the kitchen, whipped open the oven, and grabbed the pot with a dishtowel. It spewed steam and smoke, and as the towel slipped, the soft pads of my fingers made contact with the pan. Cursing loudly, I dashed to the sink, running my fingers under cold water as William made his way into the kitchen. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I turned, my fingers still under the faucet. “Just a little burn.”

Jack came up behind me, took my hand, and examined the marks that were already shiny and puffed out, a blister forming.

“I think dinner is burned,” I laughed, shutting off the tap.

“Dinner and you.” Jack smirked, kissing the wound.

We ordered pizza and drank wine until it ran out. Jack had an early meeting at his gallery, so when we switched to whiskey he excused himself and went to bed, leaving William and me standing in the kitchen.

We began cleaning in silence, loading the dishwasher with the precision of two people working on a factory line. As we established a rhythm—William passing me an item, me rinsing it before placing it in the dishwasher—we started adding little spins and twists between each movement.

When we got to the cutlery, William began tossing pieces to me from across the table, some hitting the floor with a clank, others I caught, poking me in the hand. We were feeling no pain, laughing hysterically. William grabbed me, twirling me in circles until I was dizzy and had to brace myself against the counter.