I roast acorn squash in the oven. Turn the soft buttery flesh into a hot pan of translucent onion and what looks like far too much garlic. Add vegetable stock and stir in a palm full of garam masala. Cayenne. Salt. Pepper. Paprika. Cumin. Blend on high for the smooth texture that will coat the spoon. The tongue. The scent present in the back of the throat for the rest of the night. My garlic fingertips resting on the back of your neck while we drink hot chocolate on the couch. I'll make yours out of the last pieces of imported chocolate your parents sent. And mine from the instant powdered stuff we keep in the pantry. You won't know the difference. And I'll get to drink this memory of you into every next time I touch or eat or smell chocolate. For the rest of my life. I talk on the phone to my friend Stephen who is dying of cancer and make a fresh pot of basmati rice without having to think about what I'm doing. I suck cardamom seeds, pressing one against the roof of my mouth, while I wait for him to stop coughing. The steam from the rice gets caught in my hair. And leaves me feeling colder. Thousands of tiny pearls dance. We're at the stage where we're ignoring these things. The evidence of losing some fight you didn't want to get dragged into to begin with. He doesn't let me cook him dinners anymore. It's longer than a month since I've seen him in person. When he used to let me wrap us both up in blankets after treatments, and we'd talk for hours about anything but this. Losing hair. And time. They've finally stopped trying to cut pieces of him out. We're talking about spatial theory and the new album he ordered online. I cut kale from the stems and soak the curly leaves in water. At some point I put down the phone. On a day like this one. It's already dark, and the wind howls like it knows the secrets I keep trying to get at during the night when I can't sleep. I never sleep anymore. I turn the kale into a pan with hot oil. Brown sugar. Red pepper flake. Stir. It's quick. In and out in a few minutes. We eat the squash and kale over rice with our fingers. The way Sakash taught me when we were in love that one summer in England. I don't tell you about the call from Stephen or how I've been feeling really lonely lately. It's finally turned winter. And our fingers are yellow stained and sticky. We talk about getting a real tree this year. The new album I ordered online. My niece's birthday party. Our tongues warm in our mouths when we sit on the couch together later. Sipping hot chocolate. Wrapped up in blankets.