Casserole Theory

No one has ever known what to say. Not once, in the whole history of doorways. So we invented the casserole —

grief translated into a dish you have to return, which is the genius part:

it builds the second visit right into the first, a future smuggled in under foil.

Here is food, it says, and here is a reason I will have to see you again.

Eat. Wash the dish. Live at least until Tuesday, when I come back for what's mine.