The memory was bad. It had holes in it like an enameled colander. When I drained the spaghetti of my brain, all the precious pasta water poured off. Imagine that. “What are you doing?” “Making spaghetti.” “No sauce?” “Butter and cheese. But I let all the pasta water drain off.” “Bad move.” She was wearing a pink terrycloth bathrobe that had been sitting in a hamper for several months. I had put it there. “When’s the last time we went dancing?” “We have been?” “Yeah, I remember swinging to Sinatra.” As mentioned, bad memory. All the spaghetti writhing and twisting together, steam rising, an off smell. The pipes tainted the water, I was convinced. Each morning that green glass of water went down oddly. Maybe that explained the little lapses. “What are you doing now?” “Not sure.” “Butter’s in the fridge.” But I knew that. And the wedge of Parmiggiano could also be found there, ready for the grating. But with no pasta water, I didn’t know what to expect. “Time is passing.” “Isn’t that what we want?” “I mean, it’s been an hour since you drained the spaghetti.”
Salvatore Difalco’s work has appeared in a number of print and online journals.