fit in this house? Does he fit in my life? Will we live here in this house when we’re married or in his cabin out on Aviation Road? I hear my mother’s voice: “
Pazienza!
Slow down! Think, Ave Maria! Think!”
I straighten the silverware on the placemat. I like two placemats. It looks like a family lives here again. The table holds four. Children! Am I too old? Some of my classmates from high school have grandchildren. I am not too old. Thank God I have good Italian genes. No Scotch-Irish wrinkles for me. What am I thinking? What am I saying? I catch my reflection in the steamed glass of the kitchen window. I am dewy. No! I’m soaking wet! My palms and face are sweating. I’m making myself sick and nervous. I’m a practical person, but I have always tended to daydream, and now I’m picturing myself married to this man and for some reason it’s a real romance killer. I don’t want to think about marriage just yet—I just want to have some sex. I need to be held! God help me!
“People are gonna talk about us,” I promise him.
“Let them.”
“Why are we cooking?” I’m asking this question to be coy and imply, Let’s not eat, let’s kiss.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Theodore asks.
I nod. But I’m hungry for everything: food, him, and all that life has to offer. Everything seems possible to me all of a sudden. How will I tell him?
Theodore continues chopping. What beautiful hands he has! His large hand and squarish fingers are in total control of the paring knife. The motion reminds me of a French movie I saw in Charlottesville once. When I go on buying trips, I make it my business to see foreign movies. We don’t get them down here, so they’re a treat. French movies always have love scenes in the kitchen. Somebody is eating something drippy, like a ripe persimmon, and next thing you know it’s a close-up of lips and hands and off go the lights and their clothes, and pretty soon nobody’s talking. I check my ceramic fruit bowl on the counter. One black banana. Please don’t let this be an omen.
“I haven’t . . . Well, I guess what I’m trying to . . .” Theodore keeps chopping. I persist. “What I want to say is . . .”
“I’m thinking, Ave.”
It may have been a long time since I’ve been with a man, but it doesn’t take a sex goddess to figure out that thinking is not a good sign. Men don’t think about sex. They think about how and where and when, but they could care less about the why.
“You don’t want me,” I say plainly, hoping I’m wrong. There, I’ve said it. The water in the pot is boiling foam. Theodore drops his knife and stirs and blows as bubbles trickle over the sides of the pot. He catches as many as he can with a spoon, but it keeps bubbling.
“Give me a hand.”
“You’ve got it under control.” I say this with matter-of-factness, but the truth is, my legs aren’t working. I’m in a state of shock, from the ankles up. I just made a statement that scares me, and I need to stay very small, right here in this straight-backed chair, or I’m afraid of what I might do. Theodore moves the pot off the burner. The foam subsides. He pours the spaghetti into the colander in the sink. He shakes it hard. He leaves the pot in the sink and goes to the stove. He stirs the sauce.
“We call that sauce
shway shway
,” I say, making my only contribution to the dinner.
“What is that?”
“It’s Italian dialect from where my mama came from.
Shway shway
means ‘fast.’ Fast sauce. Instant sauce.”
“It tastes great.”
“Fresh basil.”
Theodore pours the sauce onto the spaghetti. He pulls out plates and forks and sets the table.
“So you want to tell me why you kissed me?”
“
You
kissed
me
.” Theodore looks at me directly.
“No.
You
kissed
me
.” Oh God. I’m yelling.
“I went with the situation. You were kissing me, so I kissed back. And after what Sweet Sue said, I felt you needed to be kissed.”
“So you were doing me a
Pazienza!
Slow down! Think, Ave Maria! Think!”
I straighten the silverware on the placemat. I like two placemats. It looks like a family lives here again. The table holds four. Children! Am I too old? Some of my classmates from high school have grandchildren. I am not too old. Thank God I have good Italian genes. No Scotch-Irish wrinkles for me. What am I thinking? What am I saying? I catch my reflection in the steamed glass of the kitchen window. I am dewy. No! I’m soaking wet! My palms and face are sweating. I’m making myself sick and nervous. I’m a practical person, but I have always tended to daydream, and now I’m picturing myself married to this man and for some reason it’s a real romance killer. I don’t want to think about marriage just yet—I just want to have some sex. I need to be held! God help me!
“People are gonna talk about us,” I promise him.
“Let them.”
“Why are we cooking?” I’m asking this question to be coy and imply, Let’s not eat, let’s kiss.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Theodore asks.
I nod. But I’m hungry for everything: food, him, and all that life has to offer. Everything seems possible to me all of a sudden. How will I tell him?
Theodore continues chopping. What beautiful hands he has! His large hand and squarish fingers are in total control of the paring knife. The motion reminds me of a French movie I saw in Charlottesville once. When I go on buying trips, I make it my business to see foreign movies. We don’t get them down here, so they’re a treat. French movies always have love scenes in the kitchen. Somebody is eating something drippy, like a ripe persimmon, and next thing you know it’s a close-up of lips and hands and off go the lights and their clothes, and pretty soon nobody’s talking. I check my ceramic fruit bowl on the counter. One black banana. Please don’t let this be an omen.
“I haven’t . . . Well, I guess what I’m trying to . . .” Theodore keeps chopping. I persist. “What I want to say is . . .”
“I’m thinking, Ave.”
It may have been a long time since I’ve been with a man, but it doesn’t take a sex goddess to figure out that thinking is not a good sign. Men don’t think about sex. They think about how and where and when, but they could care less about the why.
“You don’t want me,” I say plainly, hoping I’m wrong. There, I’ve said it. The water in the pot is boiling foam. Theodore drops his knife and stirs and blows as bubbles trickle over the sides of the pot. He catches as many as he can with a spoon, but it keeps bubbling.
“Give me a hand.”
“You’ve got it under control.” I say this with matter-of-factness, but the truth is, my legs aren’t working. I’m in a state of shock, from the ankles up. I just made a statement that scares me, and I need to stay very small, right here in this straight-backed chair, or I’m afraid of what I might do. Theodore moves the pot off the burner. The foam subsides. He pours the spaghetti into the colander in the sink. He shakes it hard. He leaves the pot in the sink and goes to the stove. He stirs the sauce.
“We call that sauce
shway shway
,” I say, making my only contribution to the dinner.
“What is that?”
“It’s Italian dialect from where my mama came from.
Shway shway
means ‘fast.’ Fast sauce. Instant sauce.”
“It tastes great.”
“Fresh basil.”
Theodore pours the sauce onto the spaghetti. He pulls out plates and forks and sets the table.
“So you want to tell me why you kissed me?”
“
You
kissed
me
.” Theodore looks at me directly.
“No.
You
kissed
me
.” Oh God. I’m yelling.
“I went with the situation. You were kissing me, so I kissed back. And after what Sweet Sue said, I felt you needed to be kissed.”
“So you were doing me a
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