That's Amore

The fork lay at a forty-five-degree angle, gently nestled into the crook of her hand. Still, it clutched the twirled pasta tightly within its tines. The fresh parmesan shaved generously by their waiter was beginning to disappear into the red sauce. What had recently topped the noodles like fallen snow was now dissolving and becoming indistinguishable from the vodka sauce beneath it.

She placed the fork along the edge of the plate. It made a small and precise clink as it met the porcelain rim. She reached for her wine glass and took a long sip, as if maybe the tannins could erase the slow heat of shame gathering in her gut.

After what felt like an eternity, though it was likely only a handful of seconds, she lifted her eyes to meet his. Suddenly very aware of herself. She hoped the tears were still tucked safely behind her lids, where she had been pressing them, bargaining with them, begging them to stay put.

“I’ll pay the bill on my way out,” he said, already slipping his arm into the sleeve of his tweed jacket and pushing his chair back from the table. “I’m really sorry, Molly.” His hand found her shoulder lightly as he walked past her chair toward the door.

She waited. Partially frozen. She waited for the door at Maria’s to close. When it did, a thin rush of cold air followed him in, cutting through the warm, wine-heavy room before disappearing just as quickly as it came.

The tears began to burn sharply, threatening to force themselves out. But she wouldn’t cry here. Not at this table, under these low amber lights, and certainly not in front of strangers who had been minding their own dinners moments ago and were now, she was certain, staring at her.

She turned her head slightly to the right. At the neighboring table sat an older man - chubby, bald more than haired, wearing a tan button-up, crisply pressed, small frameless glasses perched on his nose. Across from him, a middle-aged woman in a red cocktail dress, much younger than him, much more aware of herself, reapplied her lipstick in the mirror of her compact.

Though she told herself she was judging them, she knew the truth. She felt judged by them. Had they heard him say, you’re just not my type… physically? Or, you’re super funny, but I’m just not attracted to you like that? Had those words carried farther than she realized, somehow dancing their way into other people’s conversations?

She glanced left. The candle on her table cracked, flickering against the black votive. Two men in black suits sat deep in conversation...metrics, numbers, something that sounded important. Had they heard him say he didn’t want to see her anymore? Had those words landed somewhere between the bread basket and the wine list?

Suddenly, Maria’s, once her favorite place....a backdrop for so many celebrations and milestones...a place she once came to for comfort...suddenly felt like a cage. A room with four corners too close together. A place where everyone was watching her lose something.

Calm down, she told herself. Get it together. This has happened before. You’ll be fine. Chill the fuck out.

She pressed her hands against the skirt of her dress. Now very aware of how dress up she was and feeling embarrassed for the formality.

Things had been going so well with Mark she thought. As she replayed the phone conversation in her head she realized how differently a conversation could be interpreted. Feeling foolish for hearing lets get dinner tonight, I want to talk to you about something, you pick the place.... as let me take you to your favorite place tonight so it's special when I ask you to be my girlfriend.

She lifted the wine glass again and took another heavy sip.

Her eyes drifted to his empty chair. Then to his plate. Scraped clean. Not a noodle left along the floral rim of the bowl.

“But this place was really delicious… you were so right,” he had said, immediately after telling her he didn’t think they should see each other anymore.

He had finished every bite. Every noodle. As if the conversation had not disrupted his appetite at all. As if his words were something you could speak aloud and then chew around.

She looked back down at her own plate. The spaghetti was still wound neatly around the fork, exactly as she had left it.

Don’t, she thought. How embarrassing. Sitting here alone. Eating alone. Publicly abandoned. Told she was “not his type.” Probably because she ate pasta like this. Because she savored it. Because she once believed in finishing every noodle, tasting every glass of wine, lingering where things were good.

Her eyes glazed over the bowl. Looking back at her... spaghetti alla vodka with meatballs. It tasted like familiarity. That was why she loved coming to Maria’s...because even when she felt uneasy in her shoes, she could count on the dishes to offer something steady, something that eased her.

She pushed the bowl away and reached for her coat.

Then her eye caught a glimmer. A reflection.

In the dark glass of the window, something silver caught the light. She turned and saw a smaller older woman behind her, wrapped in a fur coat, adorned with dozens of silver pendants. Charms that had clearly lived lives before landing against her chest. The woman slurped a noodle through her red-stained lips without apology, already spearing the next one with her fork.

Without putting the fork down, she lifted her wine glass and drank. A wide smile spread across her face.

Molly didn’t know her, but the woman felt unmistakably familiar. As if she had stepped in from a future version of the room. As if this moment had been placed here intentionally, like the salt and pepper shakers.

She slid back into her seat.

Fuck it, she thought.

She lifted her fork.

The garlic hit her tongue first - it was bright. Then the creaminess of the vodka sauce followed, warm and steady, filling her mouth.

She couldn’t believe she had almost walked away from this....this gift of a dish.

She couldn’t believe she had almost let herself go hungry for a man who took her to Qdoba on their first date.

She twirled another bite.

And ate until the bottom of the bowl was almost fully white.

A small pool of vodka sauce formed where noodles had once held it together.

She dove her hand into the untouched bread basket, ripped the roll in half, and slid the soft inside crust into the bowl to lap up the remaining sauce.

Once the bowl was completly clean, she came back to herself and back into her body. She looked around, certain that they other guests would be starting in disgust. But, they seemed just as they were before. Unbothered, unphased and uninterested. She turned to see the old woman, now enjoying a large slice of cheese cake. They locked eyes and her small blue eyes tossed Molly a tiny wink.

She wiped her mouth, took the last chug of her wine, put on her coat, and headed to the doorway.

She stopped at the hostess stand and said to the young Italian woman...“can I please pay for that woman’s dinner,” pointing to the old woman in the fur. “Put it on my date’s card, Mark, he just left.”