Tomorrow There Will Be Apricots by Jessica Soffer

in my diet. “You know that. And I’m tired of cooking. Do you see what I’ve been eating around here?”
    I ate Pop-Tarts. My mother, an incredible cook, would have turned in her grave. I liked the ones with colored sprinkles. They were festive.
    “Oh yes,” Dottie said. “I see. I certainly see what you’re eating. It’s called carbo loading. Miraculously, you’re not a bus. You’re a beanpole.”
    “What’s your point?” I said.
    I was picking at my lips, taking my unlipsticked skin off in little strips. Dottie swatted at my hand.
    “It’s really quite brilliant,” she said. “I don’t know why we haven’t thought of it before. It’s perfect.”
    “Spit it out, Dottie.”
    “Here it is.” She said each of the next words slowly and deliberately, as if she were passing out snacks to pesky toddlers.
    “I think—”
    Long pause.
    “That you—”
    Long pause.
    “Should teach—”
    Pause.
    “Ready? Ready? Ready?” she said.
    “Yes, I’m ready,” I said. “Christ.”
    “A cooking class!” she exploded.
    She stepped back, ready to take in my delight, full of emotion.
    “Oh yeah?” I said. “And I think you should compete in the Miss America pageant.”
    “I was almost Miss South Carolina—”
    “I know,” I said. “You’ve mentioned it.”
    “Not the point,” she said. “The point is that it would be good for you. You could make a little money. You have a great kitchen. You know so much.”
    “Like what?” I said. I wasn’t in the mood.
    “Like eating apples for happiness,” she said. “You told me that once.”
    “Yellow vegetables for happiness,” I corrected her. The Iraqi Jews ate according to color. “White for purity. Green apples for hope and prosperity.”
    She must have seen the look on my face.
    “Joseph is in good hands in there,” she said. She signaled toward the only part of the apartment she hadn’t been to in years. Literally, years. Joseph’s wing. Like I said, sickness terrified her.
    I half nodded. I saw her point.
    “I’ll make some squash for dinner,” I said. “I will.”
    “Middle Eastern is very in right now,” she continued, upbeat. “Those colored silks and the beads.”
    I’d snapped my teeth at her but she was already at the door, doing a pageant wave. For just a moment, I loved her, her optimism. I appreciated it.
    “I have a date with my neighbor friend upstairs,” she said, all cheeky.
    “Vladimir?” I asked. Vladimir was Russian mafia. We were pretty certain.
    “No,” she said. “The thirteen-year-old sign maker. He’s quite taken with me.” She batted her lashes.
    “Dottie, don’t. You don’t even have a picture—”
    As the door was closing behind her, she’d waved a shiny photo at me. It had tape curls on the back. It was from Joseph’s side of the headboard. He’d kept it there. Dottie must have swiped it while I wasn’t looking.
    I’d hated that photo. It was from twenty years ago. I was in one of my hostess outfits, all monotone and sheen and unfortunate padding. Mermaid-y. Joseph adored it. There was something nice in that.
    It felt like a lifetime had passed since Dottie and I had had that conversation, though it had been only two weeks. And not even a day since Joseph had died. I wondered if time would ever move at a reasonable speed again, if it might ever fly.
    Still, I was bolstered for a moment, as it occurred to me that Robert had seen the photo—and called despite it. I wondered if he was almost blind. There could be no other explanation.
    “Did Dottie put you up to this?” I asked him now.
    “I don’t think so,” he said. “I don’t know any Dotties. I got your name off the flyer? The flyer at the Y?”
    “Dottie!” I yelled upward. She tapped her heel. She was in her kitchen, probably watching something spin in the microwave.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “I must have made a mistake. Sorry to bother you.”
    He was about to hang up. But then something came over me. I remembered the