The chef who saved me

IT HAD BEEN a bad breakup. She and I had lived together for three years, long after it was clear we had been a mistake from the beginning. There followed, finally, a kind of plummeting death-lock in which she and I could do nothing but cleave together and grimly wait for the ground to arrive.

It left me living in the windowless basement of an old friend's house in Brooklyn. Mornings, I lay in the complete darkness, listening to the shuffling and creaking as he and his wife and two children...

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