Funneling
When we’re done eating, I carry the dishes into the kitchen while Drake brings up the rear with the last of the pizza. “I can’t believe you ate almost all of that,” he says, dropping the two boxes on top of the ceramic cooktop at one end of the kitchen island, then opening a drawer beneath. He faces me as he pulls a sheet of aluminum foil off the roll. “I’ll grant, I haven’t had much opportunity to feed you, but you’ve always eaten like a bird before this.” The door to his dishwasher drops open with a slam, a whole lot like the temperamental, thousand-year-old thing installed in Mr. Adriani’s house. For a second, my expression sours staring at it. It feels like forever ago that I lived there, not only a few months. I wonder for a moment what ever happened to our belongings—Adriani’s and
- Writer
