Childhood memories, and more recent ones from life with Lisa, waft through my soul at the smell of the store-bought, freezer-section garlic bread heating in the oven. It’s the kind that comes in foil packaging and bakes up crispy and flaky on the outside and smooshy and moist on the inside; my mother used to make this stuff every Sunday, with a giant pot of spaghetti and homemade marinara, a recipe passed down through several generations of women on my mother’s side—the recipe is written down somewhere at home, on a yellowing notecard in my great-grandmother’s handwriting; Mom, lacking daughters, taught Lisa the art of the marinara, and she always used to make this same garlic bread with it, always on Sunday.

I wonder what day it is. I haven’t looked at a clock or calendar in days. Maybe I could just pretend it’s Sunday. I could probably make that sauce from memory, honestly. I watched Grandma do it until she died, and then Mom until she died, and finally, Lisa, until she too died. Damned if I’ll teach any other woman in my life how to make that sauce.

I find a big ceramic bowl, line the bottom of it with paper towel, arrange the bread, now cut into neat little rectangles, in the bowl. Cover it with a hand towel, the way Mom used to. Grab the bottle of Josh, the bowl of bread, and head across the lawn between my cabin and hers.

She’s on her porch, and she’s brought out a small table, likely something that sat beside a couch. There’s a large black stockpot with a glass lid on the table, a pair of plates stacked, a pair of forks. One of those big fork-spoon pasta-serving things. A small plastic jar of parmesan cheese, the ubiquitous kind with the green label.

“Eating on the porch, huh?” I say.

She nods. “It’s a beautiful evening.”

No need to point out that, it’s also a neat way to avoid the idea of not inviting me inside. I understand.

I set the bowl of bread on the table, lift the bottle of wine, and extend it to her. “I, uh, brought this. Figured you can’t have spaghetti without wine, right? I dunno a damn thing about wine, so I hope this is all right.”

She takes the bottle and examines the label; her expression is…not stunned, but more suspicious. “You know how I like my coffee, and now you know my favorite brand of wine.”

I shrug. “Coincidence. The selection at the market in town here is pretty, uh, limited, to say the least. What they do have seems to be pretty good, but, uh, like I said, I don’t know shit about wine, so I just picked that ’cause the label looked cool.”