“You don’t have to stay.” He looked at me. “You already said that.” “I’m saying it again.” “And I’m still here.” I turned back to the shelf and pulled down the pasta. He hadn’t moved from the kitchen doorway. Just standing there with his hands in his pockets like the apartment had already decided he belonged in it and he was waiting for me to catch up. “If you’re going to stay,” I said, “you’re not just going to stand there.” “Tell me what to do.” “Wash the tomatoes. They’re in the bowl by the window.” He moved without argument. I heard the tap run. I found the pan, set it on the stove, reached up to the shelf above the cooker for the olive oil. The shelf is high. It has always been high. In the old apartment I used to ask him to get things from it. Not because I couldn’t reach. Because it was easier. Because asking felt like something couples did. Small domesticities that said we are a unit, we function together, we share the load of even the small things. I didn’
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