Timothy by Greg Herren

haven’t laughed much in a very long time.”
    I felt both my anger and embarrassment fading away.
    I bit my lower lip and looked down at the place setting. Of course he hadn’t been able to laugh since his partner had died. I couldn’t imagine that kind of suffering, the pain he must still be going through. It had to have been horrible to lose the love of his life in such a terrible and unexpected way.
    â€œIt’s okay, I really don’t mind, really,” I finally said, running my index finger through the condensation on my water glass. “Valerie laughs at me all the time.”
    â€œI’m sure she does.” His face darkened. “How can you stand working for that awful woman?”
    I shrugged. “She’s really not that bad, Mr. Romaniello. She—”
    â€œIf we’re going to be friends, Church Mouse, you’re going to have to call me Carlo.” He interrupted me with a kind smile. “I don’t eat meals with people who call me Mr. Romaniello.”
    I felt my cheeks reddening again, and I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. “Thank you, Carlo.” I nodded politely. “But seriously, she isn’t that bad, really. She’s more bite than bark, and she’s used to—”
    â€œYou sound like a wife defending the husband who’s just broken her arm,” he interrupted me again. “Seriously, Church Mouse, the first step to getting out of an abusive relationship is to admit that you’re in one.”
    â€œBut—” I stopped my protest when I saw the twinkle in his eyes and the sly smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You’re teasing me.”
    â€œI’m sorry—you must think I’m terribly unkind,” he replied. “How about we find something else to talk about? I won’t say another word about your employer—but I have to ask, however did you end up working for her?”
    So I wound up telling him the entire story of my father’s death and how I come to work for Valerie in New York. The waiter came—Carlo ordered for me—and he occasionally interrupted me to ask a question. At first, I spoke hesitantly—no one had ever shown such interest in me before—but the longer I talked, the more confident I felt. And by the time I was finally winding down the incredibly dull story of my life, the waiter was placing our salads in front of us.
    â€œInteresting,” Carlo Romaniello said after watching me for a moment. He buttered a roll and tore it into little pieces.
    â€œI’m not interesting.” I said, adding sweetener to the tall glass of iced tea I’d been too busy talking to drink. “You must be so bored—I’m so sorry to have run on this way. You must think I’m horribly self-absorbed.”
    â€œOn the contrary, I think you’re very refreshing—a nice change from all the truly crashing bores I’ve unfortunately had to get used to spending time with.” He winked at me as the waiter presented a bottle of wine to him. He took a sip and nodded, and the waiter filled our glasses and left the bottle.
    â€œI don’t really drink much,” I confessed as I picked up the glass. I swirled the red liquid around dubiously. The truth was I didn’t drink at all. Once, when I was in my early teens, my father decided to teach me about wine. I’d had several glasses, and spent the rest of the evening on my knees in front of the toilet. I didn’t like liquor—the taste of it wasn’t appealing.
    But I wasn’t going to tell Carlo Romaniello that.
    I sipped the wine as he watched me. “What do you think?”
    â€œIt’s kind of—” I searched for the right words. “Fruity and a little dry?”
    â€œYou’re a fast study.” He smiled at me.
    I don’t remember what all we talked about, but it seemed like the time flew by—the next thing I knew the waiter was