I put a lid on the pan full of vegetables and minced chicken, then stuffed the pan in the fridge. The great thing about this meal was that I could toss it back on the stove top and heat it up whenever we were hungry. There. No pressure. I looked around my tiny, somewhat clean kitchen. I’d painted the walls yellow and decorated the whole room with black and white accessories, even sticking checkered black and white paper on my cupboard doors. The place was very New York City Yellow Cab.
When the bell rang, I jumped off the counter, but then slowed down. Wasn’t going to run to the door, now was I? In the living room, I made a quick stop at the mirror—an oval, gold framed thing right out of the nineteenth century I’d hung between my posters of Night of The Hunter and Kiss Me Deadly—and looke
