LYNN IS OUTSIDE, bent over the row of peas. The chicken is sitting over there in the pan. I guess it’s ready to bake. She put garlic, butter, lime juice, chili powder, chopped nuts, oranges, cloves, parsley, coriander, half a banana, and paprika on it. What’s left? Jean Naté? A cigar up the butt? The rice is cooking away in a pot. The chicken sits there like a drag queen, waiting to get roasted.

When it was over, Lynn went into another room and fell asleep. The therapist came over and said, “You were so caring today. Guys aren’t usually so caring.”

I nodded. The woman looked at me sweetly. I guess I was nice. So what. Maybe it wasn’t the norm for her. Or was she just looking for a tip? My voice, though, was so much deeper than everybody else’s in the room. Whatever I said that day came out sounding like a frog croak. Like a belch. My voice was unnaturally deep. I nodded as much as possible. Other than an arrest for drunk driving in college, it was the most nodding I’d ever done in one five-hour stretch.

“What are you doing?” I yell to Lynn out the window. She’s bent over the rosebush. Her head is down and her shoulders are rounded, as though she’s concentrating on something small.

Lynn says, “There are beetles on the roses.”

I look over at the roasting pan again. “Do we cook this thing or what? I’m getting hungry. What temperature do you set it at?” No answer. She’s busy with the roses.

“Lynn, you didn’t turn the oven on. I’m going to come out there and pull you in by your hair.”

Her hair is hanging around her face. She’s looking down. “Relax,” she says. “The oven is on. What time is it?” I can feel myself getting annoyed, so I take ten deep breaths, counting the numbers slowly, saying the word relax as I breathe out.

“Damn it, Lynn, I can’t hear you.” She looks up finally.

“It has to cook for an hour,” she says. “And you have to move the rack.”

The pan is heavier than I thought. She said move the rack. What does that mean, up or down? I grab it and then drop it, hot rack, and then the roasting pan, too, onto the oven door.

“Fuck!”

“What’s going on?” she says.

“The rack is on fire.”

“Of course it is, Jack, it’s three hundred and fifty degrees in there. Did you burn yourself? Better put cold water on it.”

I stand over the sink and let the water run on my fingers. There’s a welt on my palm. I am a moron. She says, “Didn’t you ever hear of an oven mitt?”

Man. My fucking hand. Did I ever hear of an oven mitt? What is that, sarcasm?