I sat at my dinette set and watched Alan search for a frying pan. It brought back memories. Fond ones. Alan made breakfast almost every morning, during the years we'd been married.
Having found the pan, Alan searched the fridge again.
'No butter?'
'I haven't been to the store in a while.'
'I can tell. What's this, a lime or a potato?' He held out a greenish brown thing.
'I think it's a tomato.'
'There's something growing on it.'
'Save it. I may need it if I ever get a staph infection.'
He tossed the tomato in the garbage, and found two red potatoes, half a green onion, and half a bottle of chardonnay. From the freezer he took a bag of mixed vegetables and a pound of bacon. Then he went through my cabinets, liberating some olive oil, several spices, and a jar of salsa.
'This doesn't seem like an appetizing combination of food items.'
He winked. 'I've got to work with what I've got.'
I sipped my coffee and watched him for the twenty minutes it took to microwave, peel, and dice the potatoes, fry the bacon, and saute the veggies, chopped onion, salsa, and assorted spices in olive oil and white wine. He added the potatoes and bacon, stirred like mad, and then dumped the contents onto two plates.
'Hash a la Daniels.' He set the plate in front of me.
'Smells good.'
'If it's lousy, there's always pizza. Hold on.'
The egg was still frying on the stove. He slid it out of the pan, sunny-side up, onto my pile of hash.
'Bon appetit.'
I took a bite, and that led to two and three, and pretty soon I was shoveling it down my throat conveyor-belt fashion.
We didn't speak during breakfast, but the silence wasn't uncomfortable.
When I scooped the last bite into my mouth, Alan whisked away my plate and refilled my coffee.
'Still angry?' Alan asked.
'A little. I thought we had an unspoken understanding all these years.'
'Which was?'
'You don't call me, I don't call you.'
He nodded, putting his plate into the dishwasher.
'I never called you, Jack, because I knew it would hurt.'
'You didn't seem to mind hurting me when you left.'
'I wasn't referring to you in this case.'
'You're saying it would have hurt you to call me?'
'Yes.'
What could I say to that? I chose, 'Oh.'
Alan closed the dishwasher, then sat across from me, leaning in.
'So, how are you?' he asked.
'Fine.'
'I know you're not fine, Jack.'
'How would you know that?'
'Still have the insomnia?'
I looked away. 'Yeah.'
'You feel guilty about that cop's wife.'
'Not really. IA cleared me on the shooting. It was completely by-the-book.'
'By-the-book isn't enough for you. You have to be perfect, or you can't live with yourself.'
I felt the armor I'd built up over the last decade begin to flake away. I needed to hate Alan. That's how I got through it.
'You don't know me like you think you do.'
He shifted back in his chair, giving me room to breathe.
'How's the injury?'
'Almost healed, thank God. Latham has been more than patient.'
