Page 124 of Aftertaste

He gave so much to feed them. Everything.

He lost the wonder of his childhood, the years his father was alive.

The devastation of his death.

The pain of high school, its acrid humiliations, its bitter defeats.

Every small triumph—his first kiss, first job, first apartment.

Those years of driving Vanya’s truck (though maybe that was for the best).

The last months of his life—his happiest—when he discovered all that he could do.

He lost Frankie, painfully, his final memory the first time they met—to discuss living together after Kostya replied to that Craigslist ad—at an East Village café with pornographic wallpaper, where Frankie’d given Konstantin his name—Bones—once he learned whatKostyameant.

He lost Maura, her love like salt, though he tried desperately to hold on, to save her for the very last, to stretch the time until she made it back, untilhe could see her. Until he could save her. But most of the dishes he made required the flavor of her memories, not bitter or acid, which he had in spades, but kinder tastes, addictive ones, heat and salt, sweetness, umami, and he’d already sacrificed his dad, and Frankie, the greatest moments of his life, as seasonings.

He lost himself.

Loses.

Making the aftertastes takes everything out of him.

AND THEN, THERE’Sjust one memory left.

A last tendril to life, delicate as silk.

A memory he both clings to and aches to cast away, a moment of shame, of pain, in early morning light.Papa… give me a taste!andThere’s never a later!andGo to the Devil!

He doesn’t know what will happen if he lets it go. If he empties himself. Becomes a vessel instead of an urn.

He licks his lips, gazes around the kitchen, at its gleaming surfaces, the bits of food dotting the counter, a mess someone has made. This place feels important, meaningful, though he no longer knows why, can’t fathom what he’s doing there. There’s a knife on the counter like the tattoo on his arm, but he isn’t sure why, in another life, he would have chosen it.

He reaches for the answer, screws his eyes tight, wills himself to remember, but it doesn’t come. It is painful to forget. A wound that won’t close. Emotional. Mental. An ache in his head, pounding.

Clap-clap-clap.

So loud he can almost hear it.

Clap-clap-clap.

There it is again.

Not in his head but against the window. Tapping.

“Stan! Are you in there?”

The voice goes through him like water, comes back again, louder. Closer.

“Konstantin!”

And she sweeps over the sill, violet haired, wide-eyed, breathless.

The most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. She throws herself into his arms, clutches him like they know each other. Like they’d been something, once.

“We did it,” she says into his shirt. “The veil—what you taught me about dough, Frankie and I—it’s closed! It was just likevarenyky, pinching and crimping; you have to see—”

She looks up into his eyes, the world there, in her smile, and he watches it wither as he gazes back, his face a question, a blank plate.

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