He hands me a bunch of green onions to chop- they yield to the knife with a satisfying crunch. Next, the red onion- deep fuschia crescents spill smoothly from my knife, and then comes fresh basil in sweetly fragrant shreds. Dinah Washington sings on the radio- "you go to my head, you linger like a haunting refrain..."
The salt and pepper grinders stand like little lighthouses over the sea of bubbling onions and garlic in a pan of olive oil. The bowl of lemons on the table gleams quietly.
Outside, the light shifts in pale shafts from lavender pre-dusk to ribbons of soft yellow.
A glass of crisp white wine. The warm soapy water as I rinse the dishes. Layering the pasta, the tomato sauce, the cheese in the lasagna dish.
And again I come to realize the truth of it: nothing happens next. This is it.