Kolli
We were eating at the dining table.
Not the kitchen island where we had eaten cookies, not the couch in front of the fire. The real dining table. The long one by the windows that could seat ten people, made of thick, dark reclaimed wood that Pa had said came from an old barn down in the valley. I had insisted we sit here.
I needed distance. I needed a table between us.
Danilo had looked confused when I said it, his spoon halfway to his mouth, but he followed me anyway, carrying his casserole plate and his glass of water like an obedient big dog.
The casserole was good. It was really good. Potatoes, cream, ham from the smokehouse the house always had stocked, cheese that browned and bubbled on top, rosemary from the frozen garden. Hans had left the recipe card in his neat German handwriting on the fridge: 'Danilo's - extra cheese, no onions'. He had remembered. Hans always remembered everything I tried to forget.
But I couldn't taste it properly. I kept looking out.
