My last class on Mondays is over by quarter to six. I take the bus to our townhouse and walk in on a bustle of activity in the kitchen. Our roommate is making spaghetti—despite the chill outside, she’s wearing a thin tank top and running shorts under an apron and little else. The kitchen reeks of garlic and tomato sauce, and the window above the sink is fogged from the heat.
“Want some sketti?” she asks me as she stirs the sauce on the stove.
I toss my coat onto one of the chairs around the kitchen table. “Sounds good.”
She points the spoon at me, sauce dripping onto the floor. “Not there, mister. We’ll be eating soon.”
As I scoop up my coat, I nod at the mess by her feet. “You spilled some.”
With a shrug, she turns back to the stove. “I’m cooking, not cleaning up. Dinner’s in ten.”
