At breakfast, really lunch, John Lundgren-Warlock meditated on his new life over a plate of leftover hasenpfeffer—a German-style marinated rabbit stew. Diana hadn’t liked it the evening before. As a neophyte cook he had a heavy hand with the spices, not comprehending how easily more can become less. Now he doodled with his laden plate, poking here and there so that each strand of egg noodle might absorb its dark freight of sauce. He had absentmindedly added a half dozen cloves of garlic late in the cooking and had been forced to admit to Diana that the taste was a tad raw. But powerful, he insisted.

“Why don’t you simply bite your fucking tongue,” she said.

“Sorry, darling. My first time out of the chute with the recipe.”

“I’m sorry, too. We lost one today.”

“How old?”

“Your age. But terribly fat. It was ghastly pumping at those fat, hairy breasts.” At forty-two his interest in mortality statistics had increased. Milestones in Time magazine had become more poignant.

“If you don’t mind,” he said, gesturing at his diminishing plate. She had pushed hers away and lit a Vantage Ultra light.

“Then he let go all over the bed. Number two, to be exact. He had been in a pizza eating contest the night before. He weighed over three hundred. Drove a UPS truck. Left a wife and two little children sitting out in the hall reading horror comics.”

“Diana!” He continued eating, now without relish.

“You told me to unwind after work.”