They came back to the apartment for dinner.The five of them — Daniel and Adrian, Catherine from the river end of the path, Owen and Ellie — the table in its five-person configuration that it had never held before. The largest gathering the kitchen table had hosted. Daniel made the pasta. The correct shape, the correct oil, the thyme at the correct stage, the quantities multiplied for five without the recipe being consulted because the recipe was in the body now, known through six years of the daily doing.Ellie sat in the chair she chose without being directed — the chair that was neither the head of the table nor the edge of it, the chair that put her between Owen and Catherine, between the father and the mathematician, the two registers she had spent the day moving between.She looked at the north wall shelf.She had looked at it in November of the previous year — the first visit, the piano evening, the Morrow Street box and the Ellie drawing pinned above. She looked at it now with
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