Page 38 of Aftertaste

Turned out the fresh-faced yoga chick he’d pegged for an Instagram influencer (last Tuesday,sardines on toast with preserved lemon, resurrected the aforementioned Tad) had actuallybeenan Instagram influencer, and she’d posted a picture of the outside of Kostya’s apartment, street number fully visible, along with a gushing entry about how excited she was to eat at the hottest underground restaurant in NYC—get in my DMs for deets!

All it had taken the City of New York was a casual message and a quick database search to confirm that he was, in fact, operating without a license.

Kostya was numb with rage. Angry at this stupid influencer (she had completely blown up his spot!) and at himself (would it have killed him to actually file some paperwork?!). He had been toiling all month, and now that he’dfinallymade the babiest of steps forward, he was back to square one.

He tried calling Frankie, hoping for a pep talk or at least some commiseration, and when he didn’t answer Kostya did the next best thing, and proceeded to eat his feelings. He had made his way through half their fridge and was just setting sights on the kitchen cabinets when his phone rang again—another 212 number that he could only assume was a Health Department lackey calling to follow up with outrageous, insult-to-injury-adding fines.

“What is it now?” he shouted into the receiver by way of greeting, his mouth half-full.

The NYPD officer on the other end cleared his throat authoritatively, and asked if he was speaking with a Mr. K. Duhovny, listed as the cosigner on the lease with Mr. Francis K. O’Shaunessey?

“Yeah,” Kostya said, swallowing. “I’m Frankie’s roommate. Everything okay?”

The officer cleared his throat. “There was a fire at Mr. O’Shaunessey’s place of employment. A—um—” Kostya heard papers flipping.

“Wolfpup?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“What?When?”

“Late last night. This morning, technically.”

“Well, where is he? Is he okay?”

The officer cleared his throat, and Kostya’s flesh went suddenly cold, goose bumps rising up and down his arms.

“Mr. Duhovny, do you have contact information for Mr. O’Shaunessey’s family?”

“Where is he?” Kostya repeated, his heart beginning to pound, adrenaline flooding his ears. “Which hospital?”

“A cellular or home phone number, maybe? Or an address?”

“No—you’re not hearing me. Frankie’s my best friend. Just tell me the damn hospital.”

“Mr. Duhovny,” the officer said after a long pause, “he isn’t in a hospital.”

Kostya couldn’t speak, was numb all over, was trembling.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you—Mr. O’Shaunessey is dead.”

ENTREMETSThe Konstantin Duhovny Culinary Experience

AIN’T THAT JUSTthe way? Shit starts getting good and pfffft, there’s the fan.

This is the part that always gets me—the pang, right here in the chest. Reliving how you died—it never gets easier. Deathday blues, postmortem depression—whatever you wanna call it, it’s real. See those therapists, fam. Don’t let it haunt you.

Haunt.

Get it?

Yeah… even the jokes lost their fizz.

Listen, let’s take a quick five, alright? Gimme a hot New York minute. Hit the reset.

We’ll circle back and pick right up again for the throwdown—little cooking contest you’re gonna love. Just… gotta get my head back in it.

Hey there. You looking for something?

---