"Merde!"

Hastily tearing off a paper towel to stanch the blood, I apply pressure for a moment, then inspect the damage. Superficial, thank goodness, though all the more painful for it: a stinging, throbbing, freely bleeding half-moon-shaped gouge at the side of my right index finger, along with a sliver sheared off from my nail.

I sigh, then shrug, taking a large sip of wine before washing and bandaging the wound and pulling a nitrile glove over it. At least only the last slice of potato is contaminated, tinged pink along one edge; I toss it into the trash and set the mandoline in the sink for later dissassembly and cleaning.

Stacking the slices, I trim them into neat identically sized rectangles, then arrange them like playing cards on a sheet pan lined with parchment and coated with melted butter. I brush them with more butter and season them liberally with salt and white pepper. Covering them with another piece of parchment, I wrap the whole pan tightly in foil and slide it into the upper oven to roast.

As I rinse and pat dry the piles of chanterelles, shiitakes and oyster mushrooms, then painstakingly slice them all thinly and evenly, I sing along to the song playing over the sound system: "Il semble que quelqu'un ait convoqué l'espoir. Les rues sont des jardins, je danse sur les trottoirs..."

Finally done with the mushrooms, I check on the potatoes, carefully letting the steam escape before unwrapping the pan completely and verifying that they are tender and nearly translucent.

In a large sauté pan, I heat butter over medium-high, swirling the pan continuously until the milk solids are a deep brown; inhaling, I nearly swoon at the rich, nutty aroma. Cooking the mushrooms in the beurre noisette until all their liquid has evaporated, I add salt, a finely chopped shallot and some chives, stir for a minute or so, then take the pan off the burner.

Laying two slices of potato on a sheet pan, I cover each with a thick layer of the mushroom mixture, then another slice of potato, and so on until I have five layers in all, ending with a final potato layer. Placing another sheet pan on top, I weight it with a pile of cookbooks to compress the little lasagnas so they will hold their shape, placing the whole contrivance into the oven at its lowest setting.

I check that the nage-butter sauce is keeping warm at a very low simmer on its induction burner, then turn my attention to the kabocha squash roasting in the lower oven along with garlic, thyme and red pepper, all tossed in olive oil and salt. The thick slices of squash are fork-tender all the way through, the garlic cloves soft and fragrant in their skins, so I pull the baking dish to let everything cool on the counter.

Slender arms slide around me from behind. I revel for a moment in the press of the small warm body against my back. "Hello, chérie." Turning, I smile, cradling her face in my hands and kissing her gently.

Her lips are slightly chapped. "Hey, yourself. Something smells amazing. Besides you, I mean."

"Shameless flatterer. You must be hungry."

Cosima rests her head on my shoulder, nuzzling into the curve of my neck. "Starving. Had to be NPO for my labs this morning and then my PET/CT scan got delayed for a few hours, so I haven't had anything since dinner last night. Priya gave me some Oreos she had in her purse but eating them hurt too much, like swallowing razor blades."

Holding her tightly, I try not to let the pang gripping my heart overwhelm me, try not to think about how frail she feels in my embrace. "You should have soaked them in milk first. What did she think of your scans?" As a rad tech, Priya cannot officially, legally or ethically make a diagnosis, of course, but I am confident enough in her knowledge and experience to trust her opinion of the raw images.

"No real change either way. Harold hasn't managed to bust through yet, at least," she says of the olive-sized tumor in the submucosa straddling the antrum and pylorus at the lesser curvature of her stomach. Harold was one of the earliest mets to be identified. At first she had made a game of naming the individual tumors, until there were simply too many of them and the defiantly lighthearted game suddenly became too much of a grim chore.

"That's good," I say, mentally cursing Harold and his cohort, especially the tumors invading her esophagus and kidneys; among other things, their presence precludes the use of pred or cyclosporine to suppress her immune system. Catching sight of the ugly bruise spreading beneath the pressure bandage at the back of her hand, I frown. "Who was your infusion nurse? Not Kaleeta, surely?"

"Nope, Kaleeta was off; had a new one today. Told her my metacarpals were too mobile for a 22g but she tried twice anyway. Blew one vein and burred the catheter in another before she finally gave in and went to a 24g in the cephalic."

My teeth clench. "What was her name?"

"Nuh unh, not gonna tell you." Running her fingers through my hair, she caresses my scalp as though she were soothing a fractious cat. "You're not going on a rampage just because I happened to get stuck with a noob."

I rest my forehead against hers. Her touch is instantly calming, though I make a mental note to check the duty roster and have a word with that nurse. Several words. Several highly specific and very pointed words. "Fine." I sigh loudly, pretending to pout. "No rampage."

"Not everyone is lucky enough to have a personal physician who spent a summer moonlighting as a phlebotomist, you know."

Snorting a reluctant laugh, I shake my head. "Dinner will be ready in about half an hour. I hope you can wait that long."

She nods. "Perfect. I have to pee out the FDG, and anyway I want to take a shower. I can still smell Radiology all over me –- you know that, like, sterile clingy atmosphere? And it's always so damned cold in there."

It's always so damned cold for her everywhere, now. I kiss her softly.

Clasping my injured hand, she peers at the blood-soaked bandaid visible through the glove. "What's with the Michael Jackson look?"

I make a face. "That's what I get for using a mandoline without the blade guard."

"Ouch." Carefully she kisses the tip of my finger, then releases my hand. She gives me a crooked little smile. "All better?"

With that finger, I draw a line down her nose and let it rest for a moment against the fullness of her lower lip, smiling in return. "All better."

"Good. Be right back, babe."

"Take your time, chérie."

By now the squash is cool enough to handle. I scoop the bright orange flesh out of the rind and toss it into the Vitamix, along with roasted garlic that I squish out of each clove. Scraping in the oil and seasonings from the pan and pouring in some vegetable stock, I add a hefty pinch of salt and set the blender to soup mode, letting the powerful motor pulverize everything to velvety smoothness and then heat it to near boiling.

The jet-engine noise ends just in time for me to hear Trouvons du temps/Pour l'impossible, pour l'inespéré, pour l'imprévisible/Et contre l'éphémère/Contre la cruauté première/Contre le marbre de nos tombes...

Shuddering, I find my phone and change the playlist to one of Cosima's trance mixes, lowering the volume to a background burble. I check the red cabbage braising in a medium Dutch oven; feeling only a little guilty, I stir in some bacon fat from its container in the refrigerator. After tasting the cabbage for seasoning, I add a bit more cider vinegar, then take the pot off the heat.

I set two places on the wide granite bar and start to plate the food. The scent of her shower gel and a whiff of marijuana precede the sound of bare feet slapping softly on the floor. My heart turns over at the sight of her; without her usual bold eye makeup, she looks achingly young and vulnerable in her oversized maroon fleece bathrobe. I pour her a glass of wine as she perches on a barstool. "That was quick."

"Missed you too much to linger." Swirling her glass, she admires the wine's clear ruby color and sniffs appreciatively before taking a sip. "Nice. Barolo, isn't it?"

"Yes, similar to that Arborina we had at Via Allegro."

Tugging me close enough that I can feel the heat of the shower emanating from her in waves, she slides her hand behind my neck and pulls me down into a kiss. "Mmm. Tastes even better this way."

I smile against her lips, seeking with my tongue every trace of the wine. The bold tannins and sweet floral notes go surprisingly well with the faintly berry-like flavor of Blue Dream; idly I wonder if there is such a thing as wine pairings for weed.

Reluctantly breaking away, I ladle the soup into bowls, spiking each portion with a splash of balsamic vinegar and adding a quenelle of crème fraîche. Transferring a mushroom-potato lasagna to her plate and spooning some of the nage-butter sauce over and around it, I hand the plate to her with a flourish. "Et voilà, mademoiselle."

"Dude. This looks awesome." She takes a forkful of the lasagna, chews, then carefully swallows. "Tastes awesome, too."

Leaning toward her to capture her mouth again, I have to agree.

Next chapter: the Cophine version of Netflix and chilling...