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“Mom’s recipe?” “You too,” I said.

“Dad’s.” They turned to walk off.

“And what’s mom make?” “Where are you flying?” I asked.
“Martinis.” He turned his head. A riot of laughter
went up as the Jenga tower collapsed
“Hey, if you’re not in therapy,
did your parents even do nearby.
their job?” “Home.”

He laughed. I kissed him
again.
I thought he was moaning,
until I tasted tears.

“Are you okay?” I asked,
pulling back.
His eyes were red, his cheeks
damp and blotchy. His wife
fluttered to his side.
“Let’s go home,” she said.

“We just got here.”

“Our plane leaves in nine
hours.”

“I told you to book a later
flight.”
“The funeral’s at noon.”

He looked at me. His eyes La soirée
were dry, his cheeks smooth
and pale as marble. de Noël,

“It was really nice to meet
you,” he said. Catherine Rickman

translated by C. Juchat
36.