Then I salted the water the way Tomasz had shown me once during a slow close. He said to use more salt than you'd think. He'd said it twice. That was how I knew he meant it. I turned up the heat.
While it came to a boil, I pulled out garlic, a can of crushed tomatoes, and the heel of a Parmesan block that had been in the back of the fridge longer than I cared to admit. Oil in, garlic in. I let it go until the edges started to color. I added the tomatoes, turned the heat down, and left it to do what it needed to do.
The pasta went in when the water was ready. I stirred it once and left it.
There was going to be too much. One person didn't need the big pot, and I wasn't a leftovers person. Food in containers had a way of becoming a project I kept meaning to get to until they evolved into something to apologize to.
When the pasta was done, I pulled it straight into the saucepan and tossed it until everything was coated. Then I stood at the counter with two bowls and split the pasta evenly.
I looked at them for a moment. Then I went to the wall.
"I made pasta. There's too much of it and I'm not interested in a container situation, so."
Returning to the kitchen, I started eating over the sink.
Thirteen minutes.
I know because I checked my phone when I set my bowl down at six forty-three, and when the knock at the door came, it was six fifty-six.
Pratt was in the hallway with a bottle of wine. It was a good one, not showing off expensive, but good.
"You know wine," I said.
"Well enough."
I found the opener on the third drawer try. My kitchen drawers operated on a system of pure entropy. Pratt watched me do the whole thing without offering to help or making me feel watched. It was a skill.
I poured two glasses. Looked at the counter, where we'd both eaten standing up once before, and carried both glasses to the table instead.
My table had four chairs and usually held my mail, a jacket I kept meaning to hang up, and whatever book I was currently not finishing. I'd cleared it that afternoon while I'd been moving around the condo, not doing anything in particular.
Pratt sat across from me. He set his glass with measured space from the edge, far enough not to be a spill risk, but close enough to reach without leaning. He settled with both forearms on the table, fully present.
My place felt different. I was using my table for something I rarely used it for. When I had friends over, we usually ate in the kitchen or on the couch.
I picked up my glass, and he picked up his. He pushed his forward, and our glasses clinked.
"The pasta's still warm," I said.
"Good," he said.
I talked while I plated it. The bar was safe and familiar, a territory I could cover without looking where I was going. Thursday’s shift had run hot until around ten and then flipped into the weirdness that happened when the after-work crowd thinned and the staying-for-its-own-sake crowd took over.
“There was a guy at the rail for most of the night,” I said. “Ordered nothing for the first twenty minutes. He stood there with his hands flat on the bar, as if he were waiting for someone to explain what came next.”
Pratt ate, listening.
“I asked him what he was drinking, and he said, ‘I’m not sure yet. So I left him alone. Figured he’d either settle or leave.”
I sat down.
“He didn’t. Stayed right there. Watched the room, but not like people-watchers do. More like he was trying to learn the rules.” I picked up my glass, turned it once. “About half an hour in, I gave him a beer. Nothing interesting. Just something to hold.”
“He didn’t order it?”
“No.” I shook my head. “But he took it and didn’t question it. He drank about half, then set it down and said thank you, like I’d done him a favor he hadn’t known how to ask for.”
Pratt paused, holding his fork in the air, and then resumed.
