![]() Like several of these friends, Dennis was an ultrasound technician, a field he'd chosen not because he'd grown up with a desire to know what lay beneath surfaces but because after a rough emotional time in college and then a shaky recovery, he'd seen a convincing ad on the subway for ultrasound school. He liked to play touch football on the weekend with his friends who sometimes came to the apartment afterward for beer and pizza, high-fiving one another without evident irony. He was big, black-haired, male, artless, at least in the sense that he had no art, no personal need for refined aesthetics. "My Chia Pet," she'd called him in bed back in the beginning, twenty-eight years earlier. He couldn't seem to keep his face free of hair growth. He always looked too big for their small New York kitchen, his body solid and indelicate, his movements broad. Jules brought it into the kitchen, where Dennis stood over the stove in his Rutgers sweatshirt. Beside the fresh pile was the square card that had been lying on the front hall table for a couple of days already, unopened. She stood and looked at the mail that had accrued today, a small, dull pile of bills and cards. ![]() When Jules opened the front door, the apartment was bright with cooking apparently Dennis was making steamed five- spice chicken. ![]()
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