Free Aftertaste by Meredith Mileti

farther from the truth. I want Jake to see Chloe.
    He hangs his coat on the hook by the door. Like he still lives here. Then, he makes for the sofa, sits down in the spot I’ve just vacated, and begins flipping absently through the Times, the gorilla in his lap.
    â€œNice gorilla.” My voice is teasing and, if I’m not mistaken, a tad flirtatious.
    I’ve gotten him to smile at least.
    â€œShe ought to be getting up any time now. It’s late for her to be sleeping,” I tell him, even though it isn’t. I don’t offer to wake her, which I’m sure Jake would prefer so as not to have to sit in awkward silence in a living room that used to be his. “Want some minestra? I think I got the last spollichini of the season.”
    Jake follows me into the kitchen, lured presumably by the promise of the luscious legume, and grateful, I’m sure, for something to do. He lifts the lid and gives the soup a stir, closing his eyes and allowing the steam to waft up and moisten his face.
    â€œBuono,” he says, giving it a taste. Standing beside him I’m filled with longing, a jolt so piercing that I have to grab the counter to keep from doubling over. I can’t believe he’s no longer mine to touch, to hold, that we can’t just take advantage of the fact that Chloe is napping and tumble into bed together. Jake looks up from the soup and meets my eye, a brief look, but I can tell he knows what I’m feeling.
    â€œI’ll have some,” he says, looking quickly away.
    I reach into the cupboard behind the stove for a bowl, which I hand to Jake without looking at him. He ladles himself some soup and picks up a bottle of wine on the counter.
    â€œOkay?” he asks.
    â€œSure, it’s already open,” I say, handing him two glasses. While I get myself some soup, Jake pours the wine, and we eat in silence at the kitchen table where we have probably sat no less than a thousand times.
    â€œMarvin’s family is producing some really great pork,” Jake says, out of nowhere, his mouth half full. Marvin Castelli is a farmer we know in Bucks County, whose family produces some of the best goat’s milk cheese in the country.
    â€œReally?”
    â€œYeah. We were out there last weekend. He’s just back from San Daniele. Spent three months there studying their curing methods. His prosciutto is not quite there, but give him time. The pork was good, though. No, better than good. I’m thinking of placing an order.”
    The “we,” I’m sure, includes Nicola.
    Jake helps himself to more wine and reaches over to refill my glass. “At some point we should talk about making some seasonal changes to the menu. The holidays are almost here.”
    â€œSure,” I tell him, “maybe after our meeting.”
    â€œMeeting?”
    I’m tempted to remind him none too gently about the meeting we have scheduled with our lawyers the Thursday after Thanksgiving to dispose of the remaining marital assets. It was the thinly veiled reference to Nicola that made me want to remind him that all this companionable eating together really hasn’t changed the fact that we are about to be divorced.
    â€œOh, that meeting.” Jake takes another bite of soup and chews thoughtfully.
    We stare into our empty soup bowls. Jake looks across the table at me as if he’s about to say something. I’m feeling hot and muddled, and the wine has caused an unpleasant flush to spread across my neck. Suddenly, I’m confused about everything, about why Jake is here, about why I didn’t tell him this was Chloe’s nap time, about whether we could ever exist like this, two parents who aren’t together showing up at school functions, chatting amiably over punch and cookies at the PTA Fun Fair.
    I gather up the bowls and take them to the sink, glad to have my back to him. I can tell without turning around that he’s standing behind me.