“Thank you again for the coffee,” she says. “I’ll have to learn to make proper coffee one of these days, I guess.”

I shrug. “I’m up early out of long habit.” I hesitate. “You ever want some, just come on over.”

She nods. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

I wave, a strange, awkward half lift of one hand. “Well. See you ’round, I guess.”

“Yeah.”

What do you get when you take two people who have lost the most important person in their lives and have since lost the ability to socialize normally? A lot of awkward pauses and even more awkward conversation.

I head home, carve for a while. Think about fishing, decide against it.

Should I have told her I knew her husband? How would that conversation go?

I don’t know what’s right, what’s wrong, what’s neither.

Dinnertime. I’m attempting to make a whole chicken in the oven, following a recipe I found online at the library and printed out.

Lisa always used to make fun of me for my cooking. I was always trying stuff, but I’d get it wrong at least half the time. Forget an ingredient, or do tablespoons instead of teaspoons, or put the oven at the wrong temperature, or leave it in too long. Once in a while, maybe every other attempt, I’ll get it right and it’ll actually be pretty damned good. But when I get it wrong? Boy howdy, do I get it real wrong.

This is the latter.

I turn around from carving, and the oven is billowing thick clouds of black smoke. I shove oven mitts onto my hands, yank the oven open, and grab the pan with my chicken on it—it’s all but on fire. It’s filling the cabin with smoke, so I carry it outside, cursing loudly all the way, and toss the pan and the blackened chicken onto the gravel drive.

I hear a snicker. “Looks like you, um, left it in too long.”

I sigh. “Seems like it.” I nudge the still-smoking carcass with the toe of my boot, and bits of char flake off. “Way too long.”

I hear her feet on the steps, and she comes to gaze down at the poor burnt chicken with me.

“You should have set a timer.”

“I was watching the clock,” I protest. And then sigh. “But I guess a timer woulda been smart, huh?”

She hesitates. “Um, I made some pasta. Nothing fancy. But I have plenty. Since your dinner is, uh, inedible, to say the least.”

“It was gonna be good, too. Olive oil all over it, bunch of seasoning.” I sigh. “Well, I’ll have to try again.”

“Lower temperature next time,” she says. “Olive oil has a low smoke point. Burns easily.” A laugh. “I learned that the hard way.”

I snort. “Looks like I just did, too.” I glance at her. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”