In the fall of 2013, my days and nights were wonderful and simple. I would wake in the morning to find Joan standing at the table, reading the paper, and as I edged into the kitchen, she would head to the stove to make me a one-egg omelet while I made sure her things were in order for the day. I took in the mail, I handled the bills, I booked her a car if she had a dinner, I sent flowers if a friend had a birthday or a show opening at a gallery.
Before I left for class, I would be sure to sit and eat with her. I learned quickly that Joan did not do small talk—a relief to me, as I am socially anxious to a fault. Instead I learned to say affirming, simple sentences, imperative sentences like, “You stay safe,” or, “You call me if you need me.
” I went to class, and after class, I would say to my peers that I could not go for drinks, I could not go to eat, I had to get back to work, though I did not say what work was. I feared to isolate myself further but also took immense pleasure in possessing such a delicious secret. In a crosstown cab on my way back to Joan’s apartment, I would call Sette Mezzo, I would call Marché, I would call Shun Lee or Elio’s, to see what their specials were.
“What sounds good to you,” Joan would say when I would call her to list the options. Often I did not know what the dishes I was reciting to her were. “John Dory?” I would tentatively offer.
“I think not,” Joan would say, and we’d land on the roast chicken. We ate on an .
