The cold had made her crave pasta: hot and steaming and slick. She would make carbonara, with lots of garlic and more egg yolks than were necessary. There was butter in the fridge and leftover bacon from the weekend. How many years had it been since she had stood there, apron on, him pouring wine for her family? She considered making only enough for herself, but the thought of him bringing this up in a future argument—how many would there be?—made
