“Did you add the garlic powder?” Shabbat asked. He was right behind me, practically bumping my shoulder. I hadn’t even realized he had arrived.
I almost jumped. Almost dropped the tongs, almost yelled something. I managed to stop myself though, and just took a step to the side. “You’re hovering again,” I warned him. He made a face.
“Did you set the coffee pot? Is the porch light on? You remembered that Mark’s allergic to sesame, right?”
Instead of replying, I sprinkled coriander on the salad. “I’ve got it under control,” I said, trying not to clench my teeth.
Over time, his pestering diminished into the background.