The memory was bad. It had holes in it like an enameled colander. When I drained the spaghetti of my brain, all the precious pasta water poured off. Imagine that.
“What are you doing?”
“Making spaghetti.”
“No sauce?”
“Butter and cheese. But I let all the pasta water drain off.”
“Bad move.”
She was wearing a pink terrycloth bathrobe that had been sitting in a hamper for several months. I had put it there.
“When’s the last time we went dancing?”
“We have been?”
“Yeah, I remember swinging to Sinatra.”
As mentioned, bad memory. All the spaghetti writhing and twisting together, steam rising, an off smell. The pipes tainted the water, I was convinced. Each morning that green glass of water went down oddly. Maybe that explained the little lapses.
“What are you doing now?”
“Not sure.”
“Butter’s in the fridge.”
But I knew that. And the wedge of Parmigiano could also be found there, ready for the grating. But with no pasta water, I didn’t know what the hell to expect.
“Time is passing.”
“Isn’t that what we want?”
“I mean, it’s been an hour since you drained the spaghetti.”
