He sat down in the next chair and leaned back. Polly knew he was thinking of the last Chinese feast, the toxic cloud of smoke when she walked away from the pan of hot chile oil. Or maybe he was thinking of the previous week, which felt like a lifetime away now: a column of flaming oil, the souls of battered squash blossoms ascending, shrieking their way toward the ceiling. Polly snapped out of it to find Ned lowering the wok lid to snuff the flames.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” he said. “But why be upset when we like to cook together?”

The new normal. Tonight, though, he said, “We could just order some fucking pizzas.”

“What a good idea,” said Polly.

You never knew when she would just agree. The new, constructive Polly let Ned talk Maude and the others into takeout and stayed in the garden with her notebook to make a list of tasks that she thought she could and could not do well anymore. It was a nice clean feeling. She put an arrow by what might improve and a question mark for things she might be too cocky about.

Can do: organizing day generally, laying out Drake’s series plot, turning off ovens.

Not so good: attention while driving, attention while cooking, patience, open flames and hot oil.

And so on. No longer grace in motion in the kitchen, no longer second nature. Ned said he wouldn’t worry about her if she wouldn’t worry about him. She looked up and could see him through the window, moving around the kitchen, laughing at something Jane or Merle was saying. Her love, her oldest friend.