I saw a boy eat spaghetti. He ate like a tiger, like a toad, like a firefly. His eyes bulged out of his head and he held his fork so delicately, it was as if he was scared it might break. I watched him as he slowly spun the spaghetti against the cresting lip of the plate. I heard the boy talk to the spaghetti. The boy said, “I would hate me too, if I were you,” and the boy said to the spaghetti, “Let’s pretend that this is all new, all fresh, that nothing bad has ever happened, that we are meeting just now for the first time.” After a while the boy wiped his face with a cloth napkin and then the spaghetti was gone. The boy sat at the table for a long time running his finger around the rim of his plate. The boy picked up his fork and inspected it and placed it back down on the plate. The boy picked up a knife off of the table that had gone unused during the meal and stuck it in his shirt pocket with the butter blade pointing down. I heard the boy say, “I miss you” and take a sip of water from a tall glass on the table. I heard the boy say, “You’re not forgotten” and he got up to clear his plate.