Pick a goddamn fish, you’re holding up the line. Tilapia’s not too fishy. Just buy whatever’s cheapest.

Watch the fishmonger crunch the fish from the ice and plop it on the board to filet. When he asks if he should “bone it,” go ahead and laugh, but say, “No.” Where will you be if you don’t learn to bone a fish?

Grab some herbs and veggies–whatever smells good. Trust your nose. Go crazy.

Oh–the recipe said wine. Everybody knows you cook with the wine you drink. Drank. How about that cheap Australian stuff you drank nights after work, her already in bed exhausted, passed out from studying for exams? Notes of Xbox, minimum wage, underachieving. Remember though, tonight you’re going to be strong and pour the uncooked wine down the sink.

Right?

On your way home, don’t drive by her apartment to see if another car’s there. Don’t check her Facebook relationship status again. Don’t search her brother’s Facebook for recent pictures of her. You’ve got fish to cook. What was that fish she suggested when she resolved you guys would lose weight together? You could text her and ask.

Don’t.

Spread your ingredients on the counter. Lay out every pot, pan, and utensil in the kitchen.

Pour some wine into a measuring cup. Now, drain the rest down the sink.

Wait—hold up. What a goddamn waste. Go turn the bottle up in the garage for good ol’ time’s sake. Cheers—here’s to you. Pretend to listen for footsteps. Tastes better when you sneak it.

Chop. Start with the veggies. Watch your fingers: you’ve had a lot to drink.

When you debone, use your sharpest knife to dig the deadliest looking bones out. Hey–if you ever need to Heimlich yourself, you put your fist center beneath your ribcage and fall on it. You’re welcome.

Throw everything together to cook. Use every pot, pan, and utensil. Turn on the stove or whatever and let it cook until it looks done.

It should look like food.

Give it a minute, then eat it.

Whose car was that at her apartment, you think? Maybe they want to try the fish stew?

Or, maybe she’s showing him how to fry that weight loss fish and he’s got his hands around her waist and he’s smelling her neck and he’s cupped his hand over her breast and he’s saying she doesn’t need to lose weight and they’re listening to Otis Redding’s “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long.”

No need to call ahead, just take the pot over and leave it on the doorstep with a note attached. Your heart will tell you what to write. Something sublime, no doubt, irresistible, that doesn’t sound like begging.

Best to walk it over there.

Ring the doorbell and run; feel like a kid again.

Sit for an hour at the park where you had your first picnic and wait for her to call.

Walk across the street to the seven-eleven and grab something to warm you while you wait.