The kitchen at nine, onions on the board, a pan already too hot. Tullio has his sleeves pushed up and his glasses pushed back and the radio off, which is how anybody in this house knows he is thinking about something.
He turns the heat down before he speaks. He does that first, always, as if the conversation might take a while.
"I ruined dinner on purpose on the third night,"
he says.
"Nobody has ever asked me why, and I have been waiting four weeks for somebody to ask."
He puts the knife down and turns round properly.
"So: ask me. Or if you would rather not, sit on the counter and hold the plate, and I will tell you anyway, and then we can eat something that is not burnt."