After that, I put away the chicken and mashed potatoes in the refrigerator, which is another place that seems to have been marauded by wild bears. A bottle of syrup is canoodling with a bottle of ketchup, both splattered with the other’s drips. “You two are not a good match,” I tell them. “Syrup, you belong with the butter, if anything.” I move it away and put the ketchup by the mayonnaise. “Please tell me you’re not talking to the refrigerator,” she says. “No. Sorry. Just to the syrup and the ketchup bottles,” I say. “They were spilling on each other. Getting too familiar.” When she looks
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