“How are those potatoes?” she asks, her hip bumped up against the counter.

“Crispy and perfect,” I answer. “Just the way I like them.”

I set the air fryer bin on a trivet and then go to the oven. When I open it up, a plume of smoke erupts, instantly setting off the smoke alarm.

“Told you, you were burning something,” she yells over the ear-piercing beep.

“It’s not burnt,” I yell back as I toss the cast-iron pan on the stove and open all the windows around the kitchen and living room. With a piece of junk mail from the counter, I wave at the smoke, attempting to get it out of the house.

“Try a baking pan,” she says as she hands me one. “That junk mail will do nothing for you.”

I glance at the baking pan and then back at her, and because I’m stubborn and think I can do everything on my own when I’m apparently lost without this woman, I say, “This coupon offering roofing services is working perfectly fine. Thank you.”

It’s not.

The fire alarm screeches, my steak looks like roadkill, and my pesto is a funky shade of brown. The only good thing about this entire meal will probably be the freshly washed plate that I washed by hand because the rest of the dishes were in the dishwasher, and it was my turn to buy detergent, and I forgot.

Once the smoke is cleared out and the smoke detectors get their lives in check, I move back to the kitchen and pitifully plate my meal. I’ll be straight with you. It looks like trash. But dammit, I’m going to eat every bit of it out of spite.

I adjust my potatoes on the plate so they don’t look as shriveled, I take a chainsaw to my steak and cut it into medallions to make it more appealing, and then I drape my sauce over the steak for presentation, attempting to show off how green it is against the black of the steak. But . . . it’s the color of a swamp. Not sure where I went wrong there.

Beer in hand and false pride in my chest, I take my plate out to the patio, where Myla is sitting and reading a book, and I take a seat. I press play on my podcast but keep it at a reasonable volume and then poise my fork and knife at my meal.

From across the table, Myla sets her book down and then lowers her sunglasses. “Looks positively five star over there.”

“It is. It’s really fucking good, so be jealous.”

“Oh, I am. So jealous,” she says as she watches me take my first bite.

Dear God, what is that flavor that just blasted my tongue? Tastes like . . . like burnt hair.

Did I burn hair while cooking?

I don’t recall.

Either way, keep your face happy and pleasant.

Make moaning sounds.

Let her know what she’s missing out on.