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.”

Salvatore Difalco

Salvatore Difalco is the author of five books of fiction, including "The Mountie At Niagara Falls" (Anvil Press) a collection of microfiction.