On our seventh wedding anniversary, which was the third since the crisis, Marcus made dinner at home.
I had suggested it. Not because restaurants had become complicated but because home had become something I wanted to celebrate in. The apartment was different from the one it had been two years ago, not in its walls but in its quality. It had the feeling of a place that was inhabited deliberately.
He cooked with the methodical effort of a man who was still learning but had stopped being embarrassed about the learning curve. The kitchen smelled of garlic and white wine and something more complicated that turned out to be a sauce he had been practicing for three weeks, which Kezia had confirmed after he had apparently tested it on her.
"You asked Kezia to taste your sauce," I said.
"I tr
