Heat rose from the lidded pot on the stove—a soup was cooking underneath. He sat at the counter, his coat still on, and she tended the stove, talking mostly into the pot or, as she crossed to a far cabinet, speaking back over her shoulder.

"Well, no," he was saying, "it's not that I didn't mean that I love you, just that. . . just that it's not quite true." Noting the vagueness of this and unable to avoid making it worse, he added, "You know what I mean?" This is the point at which a callous observer would erupt in guffaws, but lucky for the dual protagonists of this story, are were alone.

"No," she answered, her eyes helping stir the iron skillet of vegetables. "What do you mean?"

"I meant what I said, but. It wasn't really the right thing to say."

She crossed to cop some herbs from a cabinet.

"Well, I appreciate what you said because, I've definitely felt that way but, it's like." Back at the skillet, she had sprinkled the soup with thyme. She lifted an elbow, holding a wooden spoon lightly at the other end of that forearm, and stirred the pot slowly. "I know me. . . and you don't. You know what I mean?"

"Of course. That's why it's not true. I know 20% of you—"

"If that."

"—if that, and, so. I meant it but it's not actually true." There was a pause filled by the skillet's crackling. "It's too bad we didn't have more time." She stirred.

"Yeah." In silence she reached into a low cabinet from which her view was obscured. She was taking a bag of salt from behind some other items when he saw the tamari bottle teetering on the edge. It fell to the floor and broke into three pieces—the smooth circular bottom of the bottle slid across the floor toward him. He knelt to pick it up.

"Well, it seems to have broken pretty cleanly," he decided to admit.