ingredients, gone home, cooked, and forgotten the entire evening by the following week. There would have been nothing wrong with it. I had lived many perfectly respectable evenings that way.
Then I looked at her.
“None.”
She kissed me, slowly enough that the answer had time to settle between us.
Before getting into the car, she asked whether I wanted to join her at the studio when our pieces were ready. Apparently, she had received an email that afternoon. My bowl had survived the kiln.
“Against expectations,” I said.
“Against
