MARTIN

The smell of the morels and shallots sautéing, the butter beginning to foam, gave Martin hope. Such an earthy smell turned sweet as the mushrooms released their juices. He was whisking the eggs when Charlotte walked in, still wet from the shower.

“Is he all right?” he asked.

“He’s napping.”

“Do you think we should wake him?”

Charlotte shook her head no.

She was wearing a peacock-blue silk robe. She looked refreshed, scrubbed, back to her old face, but it wasn’t her old face anymore. The way she moved her head, they way she played with her hair was different. She took two wine glasses down from the rack, filled them from a bottle of Shiraz Martin had uncorked, and set one on the counter for him. She sipped at the other.

Martin tipped the eggs into the pan, shaking them until they were just set. Then he loosened the edges and flipped them into a perfect half moon; they slid willingly onto a blue-green platter. He divided the omelet into thirds and prepared a plate for her: the egg, a sprig of parsley, a few cherry tomatoes, a thick slab of toast from a loaf he and Javier bought the night before.