Page 100 of The Lineman

What an idiot. That was a terrible idea. Ovens had doors for a reason.

The lasagna was on fire.

And not in the fun “Wow, this dish is on fire!” kind of way.

In the actual, literal “I need a fire extinguisher immediately” kind of way.

How was that even possible, for pasta and tomatoes to burst into flames?

As I pondered that existential question, the smoke alarm went off.

BEEP.

BEEP.

BEEP.

I grabbed a towel and started flailing at the alarm like a deranged bird trying to take flight.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

BEEP.

BEEP.

BEE—

My phone rang.

I froze mid-flail, then yanked the phone out of my pocket with my free hand.

The name on the screen stopped me cold.

Elliot.

I groaned, pressing the phone to my ear.

“Hey,” I said, voice hoarse from a combination of smoke inhalation and shame.

There was a pause. Then Elliot laughed.

“Mike,” he said, way too amused, “why does it sound like you’re actively fighting for your life right now?”

I glanced at the smoking lasagna . . . then up at the beeping smoke alarm . . . then around at the kitchen, better powdered than a Geisha’s face.

The ruins of my dignity.

“Oh, uh, no reason. I’m just glad to hear your voice. You know, out-of-breath glad. Like you stole my breath just by calling.”

Elliot snorted. “Are you cooking?”

I scoffed. “How dare you.”

“You’re cooking again. Should I call the fire department now or wait until the flames reach your attic?” His voice was delighted.

“I’m attempting a new art form called culinary arson, thank you very much.”

Elliot laughed again, the sound like a warm hand on my chest, like something I hadn’t realized I was missing until it was there again.

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