Saturday night

 Saturday night 

Roz said again at supper that she was worried about her narrow man. (See here.) We were talking about her friend Maggie, who was thinking she might have to have carpal tunnel surgery. Roz said something about wishing she could call the narrow man to ask if he was okay. I wouldn’t want a woman I didn’t know calling me, I said, asking how I was, whatever note of compassion she could put in her voice.

     Roz asked me how I knew that if it had never happened to me.

We were eating spaghetti I had made with store-bought marinara sauce but doctored with basil and fennel and thyme, thickened with diced and sautéed onions, apples, peppers, and celery, and with ground Italian sausage. The noodles I boil just beyond al dente. Sometimes I make a salad as well. This time, though, I just threw two cups of frozen spinach in with the noodles.

     Afterward, Roz bussed the table and washed the dishes. I put on a second sweater, wrapped my legs in a blanket, and sat down in the den to watch the sad fourth game of the Series.

10.27.19