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For over an hour, I handed him things to touch or taste. During my second year of theatre school, Anton moved to England for a while to live in a squat.
I was taking care of his every step, and the bond between us felt unbreakable. (I wasn't too familiar with how kiwis worked.) He ripped off the blindfold and spit out a wad of fuzzy green gunk into his hand. We didn't talk about dating other people — we didn't have to; our love was going to last forever and always be exclusive.
I got another job: as a short order cook at a senior citizens' golf course.
In the kitchen at the clubhouse, I learned to cook staples from the 1950s, dishes my boss thought seniors would enjoy: potato salad, shepherd's pie, tuna casserole.
She once cooked me a meal with mouldy vegetables, and then stood there watching to make sure I ate it.