Souvlaki
Christopher Coake In the long, cold year after Iris died, what I could and could not bear was often a matter of very minor degree. For many hours of the day I wanted to be alone in the little house I’d shared with her, to suffer with no witnesses. Then, without warning, I would need desperately to be anywhere else. I would sit for long hours in coffee shops, or in the downtown Reno library, or in a casino sportsbook—places in which I would be required to act like a living man just long enough for it to seem true. Dinnertime was hard. I could just about manage to eat at home, most nights, so long as I did not sit at the kitchen table, and so long as I did not cook. I used to like cooking for the two of us, though my repertoire was basic: roast chickens, hamburgers, pork chops and salad. I baked bread. Iris liked my food. I had made plans to improve it. I’d bought cookbooks; I’d enrolled in a culinary course. They e-mailed me, wondering why I had not shown up. During that year I bought frozen dinners, deli-counter sandwiches. Just as often I picked up my phone and asked other people to cook for me. This was before all the services that would bring food to your door—which was good, because in order to get my dinner after a long shift at the warehouse I had to come home and feed the dog, and then shower and put on a clean shirt, and drive to a restaurant and interact with the people who had made the food. Then I would return home and eat. Most nights I ordered a smaller portion for Jester, our Aussie Shepherd, grieving our loss in his own way, and he and I would sit on the living room