Chapter 8: Toast

Isak's apartment had one chair, one lamp and one plate in the drying rack.

We got there at five o'clock on Sunday, after the ride home down the shore with my hand on his knee the whole way.

He unlocked the door and stood back to let me in, holding my duffel bag.

The living room was tidy enough for a museum.

A gray couch faced a gray wall, and the only chair was a good leather one with a reading lamp next to it.

The bookcase held engineering manuals in alphabetical order.

There were no photographs on any shelf.

"You can say it," he said.

"Say what?"

"That it looks like nobody lives here."

"Somebody does," I said. "He's just very neat."

He set my bag on the couch.

"Are you hungry?" he asked. "I can make you something. I have bread, butter and honey."

"Is that all you have?"

"I've been shopping for one."

He looked embarrassed, then he gave me a small lopsided smile, and I forgot to be sorry for him.

I followed him into the kitchen.

It was narrow, with a white counter and a window over the sink that looked out on the lake in the dusk.

He dropped four slices of bread into the toaster and leaned against the cabinet.

"I should tell you I did something stupid," he said.

"Go ahead."

"I stopped at the gas station in Two Harbors on Thursday while you waited in the car."

"I remember. You came out with seltzers."

"I also bought a box of condoms."

I stared at him.

"On Thursday," I said. "Before you wrote Rule six."

"After I wrote it. It was a precaution."

"Against what?"

"Against myself," he said, and the toast popped up.

I laughed so hard I had to hold the counter.

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