Lying between the sheets, I whisper to you, "Don't run away with me. I don't want to run from things anymore. Let's just run toward things." You love this.

I'm so scared I don't impress you anymore.

I feel like a skinless chicken breast cutlet, naked and pale and open as a wound. But that's okay -- that's the only part of the chicken you eat anyway. "It's flavorless," I used to say to you. "Flavorless and dry." You would dutifully eat a bit of drumstick, but half of it would be left in a sad little pile on your plate and I would protest, feeling like my parents. I'd tell you stories about eating chicken cartilage, just to gross you out. It's like eating plastic, kind of. Chicken-flavored plastic.

And now I feel as plain and wobbly as a stupid chicken breast. I've never felt like this before. I used to be the one who ran the kitchen. You cooked, but always the same things, boy things: pasta and BLTs and Tasty Bite curried potatoes. You complained of feeling boring, but you never tried out new recipes, even when I bought you an Indian cookbook. So I cooked from it instead.

But my books are closed, the knives are down. None of the old recipes will work for whatever it is we are cooking up. We are starting from scratch, standing here together in the kitchen. I'm ready to start from scratch: a smooth and naked surface, waiting.