BEHOLD!

Have you been noticing that I've been... kind of losing my mind?

pack it up boys we've made a social blunder

let's run that again

one more time normal style

I'm going to become a statistic

further proof god is out to get me

it's because I tore my acl senior year

I couldn't do it for religious reasons

my ex took my talent in the divorce

"The whole city packed into automobiles and all weekend, every weekend, ended up at Gatsby's. And I mean everyone: from every walk of life, from every corner of New York City, this kaleidoscopic carnival spilled through Gatsby's door. A caravansary of billionaire play-boy publishers, and their blonde nurses. Heiresses comparing inheritances on Gatsby's beach. My boss, Walter Chase, losing money at the roulette tables. Gossip columnists alongside gangsters and governors exchanging telephone numbers. Film stars, Broadway directors, morality protectors, high school defectors and Ewing Klipspringer, dubious descendant of Beethoven!"

The light from the kitchen spills out in a narrow strip across the floor, and William lingers there for a moment before stepping through, like crossing some invisible threshold.

He watches her a second too long before making his presence known, leaning his shoulder against the door frame instead of fully committing to the room. Safe passage, she's decided—and he's not entirely sure whether that's a privilege or a quiet kind of accusation.

And yet.

She's not writing menu items now, just idly making arrows to vague culinary concepts; apricots are in season, chutney? No, too expected. Grill it. Serve with...?

Her question mark is repeated about seven times before she replies. "It's tough either way." Again, she's so sure of herself regardless of the way her lips screw into a frown. She either doesn't believe herself or hopes another moment of silence will make him bend and agree with her.

Even now, he barely moves against her touch but instead his head still tilts her way. Cheek to cheek, smile to smile.

A few hours is the longest she's heard of anything having to cook, but he's explained everything so calmly so far that she has no choice but to take his word for it.

She can't help but wonder, though: "Do you think so? I mean, if it's supposed to be a really good present—"

That's all this ever was to him. Spirit was the freshness. The novelty of the hour. The taste in his mouth of today—one day she will have frizzled grays and he will have been made new, unrecognizable to her outside a knowing look.

It's oddly comforting to know she would eventually take his hand one last time. "The longer it cooks," He begins, stepping forward until her chin's instinctively pressed into his chest. "the more tender it will be. And we're aiming for falling off the bone texture." Granted, he might need breaks to baste the poor pig, but they both also needed breaks.

If only her skin would show marks.