There were Fridays when Aron seemed to have formed a special connection with Luda.
She wondered if Luda really had been as famous and successful as she claimed.
Luda had found it next to a pile of garbage about six blocks from her home.
They looked at Luda with wary squeamishness, as if she were a mangy dog.
She had given it to Luda after her husband had tried it and hated it.
Luda was about to answer with a sympathetic smile, but the smile died in midair.
By the time Luda opened the classroom door, the students had already started their introductions.
Luda said that they would all miss Aron, and Milena said that his was an enviable death.
When he finished a second piece, he took a napkin, wiped his lips, and looked at Luda.
That night, as she lay in bed on her rock-hard mattress, Luda continued to think about Milena.
Milena said that the young Luda looked like Saddam Hussein with bigger hair and a thinner mustache.
This was the groan of somebody who was profoundly annoyed with Luda but still loved her very much.
And now for the secret ingredient, Luda thought, throwing some small cubes of pancetta into the hissing skillet.
Luda studied the room, trying to think of a way to approach Aron.
All of them had laughed happily when Milena compared Luda to Saddam Hussein.
Luda had a sudden urge to reach over and touch the thin wisp of hair that stuck to his forehead.
On Mondays, Luda and Milena felt deflated and tired, too, and perhaps even a little ashamed of their Friday excitement.
Once, Luda brought old photographs of herself to class to show Milena that she, too, had been a real beauty.
Luda smiled as she watched the meat cubes crumble under the blades.
Once Luda figured this out, she learned to fake her culinary preferences.
Summer breeze with creaking joints, Luda thought, but she was worried.
Luda headed for the only empty seat, against the wall, squeezing her large body between the flimsy chairs that sagged under the weight of the E.
The afternoon before the last International Feast, Luda plugged in her food processor, pushed cubes of beef and lamb down the tube, and pressed the button.
People like Luda resembled battering rams they pummelled and pummelled, patiently, without taking a break, for as long as it took them to get what they wanted.
But when Luda took the pie out of the oven not as perfect as on TV, far from perfect, but warm and gleaming and fragrant all her doubts disappeared.
There had been a moment, after Luda took off her cardigan and hung it over her chair, when Milena actually sniffed the air and moved farther away in her seat.
An International Feast, with its food, culture, and informal atmosphere, would be a perfect opportunity to get a man to notice you, and Milena knew this as well as Luda.
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