The Pairing

It feels like there must be such a tremendous distance between Palermo and home, between where Theo is and where Theo isn’t, but the flight only takes two and a half hours. I close my eyes to Ravel in my headphones, and when I open them, I’m once again arriving in Paris alone. This time, I’m here because we chose it. That has to count for something.

At home, everything is how I left it. The embroidered pillows on the sofa, the shelves of my and Thierry’s books. Maxine has washed and changed the bedsheets, even spritzed them with the lavender oil I keep beside the bed. The plants in the windows are happy and verdant, their leaves plump and shiny in the early afternoon light. The detailed list of plant care instructions I left on the chalkboard by the kitchen has been erased and replaced with a stick-figure drawing of Maxine and me riding a giant strawberry.

The first thing I do, once I’ve unpacked and showered and applied all the nice skincare products I couldn’t pack, is go to the market. I pick up the basics to ready my kitchen for everyday use again—eggs, butter, milk, ripe tomatoes on the vine, a fresh loaf of peasant bread, paper cartons of berries, lemons, heavy cream—and then carefully select the ingredients for a tarte tatin. Summer will end soon, and in a few months autumn will bring quinces; today, I choose peaches.

I haven’t made a tarte tatin since patisserie school, and it turns out I’ve forgotten how tricky they can be. A quarter of the peaches stick to the pan. Not my best work, but if I’m being honest, Guillaume isn’t the best fuck. Both will do in a pinch.