Dani Shapiro

I handed them their wine and directed them to the couch.

On the coffee table, I had put out a plate of crudités and a bowl of olives.

Quite a place, my mother said brightly, her gaze darting around the room at the white brick fireplace with its wrought iron tools, the glass wall overlooking the garden, the soaring ceiling.

My father stared at the fringe of the rug, glassy-eyed.

He needed to be as numbed as I did to get through this night.

Thanks, I murmured, as if she was paying me a compliment.

I checked on dinner, using the opportunity to gulp some wine from the open bottle in the fridge.

Vodka and white wine was a combination I knew worked for me.

If I stuck with the formula, things shouldn't be too bad in the morning, especially if I wasn't eating, and I couldn't see myself eating.

The music had stopped by the time we all sat at the dining room table, but I didn't notice then.

If I had, I would certainly have changed the tape, filled the air with something other than the tinny, lonely sound of our three forks scraping against plates.

I pushed my chicken from one side of my plate to the other.

My stomach clenched and growled in protest.

It seemed that my parents and I, after 22 years in each other's company, had run out of things to say.

I already knew their views on the political situation in Israel, and we couldn't discuss my schoolwork.

I was no longer in school.

My father pressed a corner of his napkin to his lips and murmured something about the food being delicious.

My mother agreed.

My wonderful daughter, she said, shaking her head.

You've turned into such a little homemaker.