All is well.

All is more than well, with the morning sun on my face. I stretch like a cat, realizing with an arch of my back that I’m naked. I didn’t go to bed naked.

No, I didn’t.

I roll toward Gio with a wicked smile, but he’s so deeply asleep that he doesn’t move a muscle.

I’ll let him sleep.

Desire blooms between my legs, but now that he is well—or at least on his way to being well—we have plenty of time.

Plenty of time.

I linger in the shower, washing my hair, shaving my legs, and he still doesn’t wake.

I could go to the store.

I’m out in the car before I have a chance to think twice.

In the grocery store, I get a half-size cart and wander the aisles, taking my time. I’ve been to the grocery too many times, lately, but we never have fresh things. I want to make fresh things today. I pick up tomatoes in the produce section and test them for firmness. I choose three avocados and put them in a clear plastic bag. Soon the half-size cart overflowing, a rainbow of food, like one of those bullshit healthy eating ads that makes you feel bad for eating Fritos.

I have Fritos, too.

I have staples.

I have things that will keep.

Things that will last a long time. The rest of the summer, even—canned black beans, canned white beans, cans and cans. I have a vision of myself plucking them off the cupboard shelves, making them into something wonderful, something that will make Gio smile.

It reminds me of my uncle, cooking. His approach was no-nonsense, but he took a certain pride in it.

I stand in the soup aisle, a fancy version of chicken noodle in my hands, and let my mind into that place of questioning. Why the hell was he in Verona? I can’t figure it out, and I don’t try to force it. I only let the memories of his house float up into my consciousness while I try to figure out how to make this sort of soup from scratch for less.

So much of that time, I was more concerned with growing up. Middle school. High school. Boys. The house was only set dressing. A soundstage. I paid as much attention to it as I would to a hotel painting.

The door to the store’s back room swings shut with a click, and it jogs something in my memory. Something old. Something I heard lots and lots of times. Hundreds? Thousands?

Always at night, always in the dark. The sound of the front door, shutting. There must have been footsteps, too, but I don’t remember those.

Only that door.

Click.

Always late. When I’d been sleeping. I’d turn over in the night, surface from whatever dream I’d been dreaming, and click.

Was there a set schedule?

Did I only ever hear it on certain days?

The small print on the can of soup swims out of focus.

Too much time.

Too much time has passed, since those nights I slept in my uncle’s house, unaware of what was going on in the rest of the world. It wasn’t until this year, really, that I started going out late, that I started visiting clubs, that I would have been awake enough. Curse that younger version of me. I didn’t know there was information to gather.

Maybe there wasn’t.

I shake my head, trying to clear the haze of teenage hormones from all those memories.

It doesn’t work.

I toss the soup into the cart. I’ll figure out the recipe later.

The cart is overfull at the checkout, so much so that I transfer it into a bigger cart. It makes me walk slower, all this food meant to last, and that’s probably why I see the flyer.

This is a local grocery store, local as hell, and at the exit there’s a big bulletin board with all the local news you could ever hope to get in the form of fliers that people hand-draw and print on their home printers. CAR FOR SALE. LOOKING FOR HOME FOR CAT. TRAILER FOR SALE, NICE.

One of them has a bright picture on it. It says HELP WANTED! at the top. I stop to look at the clip-art ice cream cone and end up reading the entire thing.

Fun Freeze is looking for cashiers. Bright personality, responsible, please call 555-3793.

How fucking quaint is that? It fills my heart with a giddy joy, this flyer for a summer job. Something simple. Easy. I could apply for this. They don’t really need to know who I am in order to let me scoop ice cream. And who would I be if I passed up the chance to work at a place called Fun Freeze? It’s so innocent.

Tears come to my eyes.

It’s stupid, crying over this flyer, so I don’t. I flick the tears away with one knuckle. I roll my cart out into the sunshine, and I go home to tell Gio I’m driving down to apply at Fun Freeze.

Fun Freeze. Ha!