I made him fish, the wild kind. I bought a heavy bag full of oranges, sliced them then strangled them for their juices. I minced bulbs and made dressing from scratch and reduced liquid to a shiny glaze.
"It's sweet," he said. "You should always make fish like this."
We shared a bottle of red. After dinner he helped me clear the dishes then we stepped into the backyard to share a smoke. We barely fit together on the step, but when I scooted over a bit there was plenty of room.
There are lots of rooms. There are entire homes we've not yet inhabited.
If I said I didn't sometimes imagine how I'd look in an apron, swollen at the belly, shoeless in a kitcken not yet ours, I would be lying.