Karl
The sizzle of sauteing farro mafaldine fills the air as Abby and I maneuver around our station like we’ve done this a million times before. I can sense a newfound glimmer in Abby’s eyes, a hint of something confident and downright mesmerizing.
“Ken,” Abby’s voice cuts sharply through the noise, using the pseudonym that I chose earlier today like it’s second nature to her despite the pressure, “start on the mushrooms. I’ll handle the mafaldine and get the sauce going.”
“On it,” I reply, grabbing a skillet. I drizzle the olive oil into the pan just as I’ve watched Anton and John do all along, having taken their motions and saved them in a little recess in the back of my mind, like a sponge soaking up knowledge.
Abby doesn’t miss a beat, her hands working with a practiced
