Patty has the TV on when I enter the apartment for what I hope to be the last time. She’s been cooking with garlic and there’s a sense of potato in the air. Water’s boiling in a pot—there might be pasta.

“You’re always looking at other women,” says a voice from the TV. “Look at me! Me!”

I prop up my walking stick, set my guitar case along the wall, and take off my shoes. “Patty!” I yell.

“Hm,” she grunts. She’s on the couch a few arms’ reaches away.

Somebody gets slapped. The swelling of music.

I make my way to the kitchen and ask, “Was that the fat one?” Distressed women on TV are usually fat. Patty’s fat too, I think. I can’t say for sure. It’s been ten years since we’ve had to hug each other.

She only says, “The stove’s hot.”

My hand falls on a plate of semi-cooked potato chunks by the stove. The water bubbles in the pot with a thin smell. I stir it and taste salt, but there’s nothing inside. I drop the potatoes in.

“What time is it?” I call over the counter.

“Six forty-something shut up.” The woman’s crying now. I’m sure Patty’s hands are squeezed tight; she’s one of those that hopes anxiously for the best when there’s nothing she can do.

I reach for my stash of bread and come upon a handle lying on the counter top. Wood: metal: serrated edge: it’s the bread knife.

“Patty! I told you don’t leave knives out!”