Page 35 of Empty Net

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"Does it allow dogs?"

"I do not have a dog."

"That was not my question."

"No. It does not allow dogs."

"Bad building."

"You disapprove of all dogless buildings."

"Correctly."

I lean against the counter. My body registers the counter before my mind can stop it. Nolan's hands there. My back there. The memory arrives with enough force that I have to close my eyes.

"Caleb," my mother says.

"I'm here."

"You went somewhere."

"No."

"You are a bad liar when tired."

"I'm a bad liar generally."

"Also true."

The ordinary shape of the conversation steadies me. Lease terms, square footage, parking, dog policies, whether the building has enough windows. Whether I can cook in the kitchen, which I cannot, and whether that matters if I refuse to cook, which she argues it does because the presence of possibility is important.

"You cannot become the kind of person who lives in an apartment where only takeout is possible," she says.

"I think that kind of person is called busy."

"I think that kind of person is called sad with containers."

I laugh. It surprises me. The laugh hurts a little. Not physically. Somewhere behind the ribs.

"There," she says.

"There what?"

"That sounded real."

I go quiet.

My mother lets the quiet stay for three seconds, which is generous by her standards.

"Are you eating?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Real food?"

"Define real."

"Food that had a name before a corporation changed it."

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