WEEK 0
Foster remembered exactly when he got it into his head to get married.
It was the time he leaned over his cubicle to see Donovan taking a bite out of a dripping, overstuffed roast beef on rye too big, too thick, and too appetizing to have come from the cafeteria.
“New restaurant?” he asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. He had a weakness for roast beef on rye. Heck, he had a weakness for food in general, especially when they looked like they had come straight out of a Bon Appetit recipe, the bread just the right shade of brown, the beef sliced in equal thinness.
“Nope,” Donovan said. “My wife made it.”
Donovan took a big, sloppy bite, getting a bit of gravy on his cheek. Foster found himself wiping his own cheek but catching drool on the back of his hand instead. H
