the past five months, and dropped back into my rumpled sheets. Seizing the roach from the ashtray, I grabbed my lighter and took a hit. Then a second. Then I snuffed it out. I was no burnout; I just needed a little something to take the edge off every now and again.
It seemed I had a lot of edges to deal with lately.
I stared at the familiar water stain on the ceiling, trying to make it form into a recognizable shape. A bear? Rhode Island? A demonic monster hellbent on ripping me apart?
The clock reminded me it was time to jog out of my stain-gazing, so I hopped in the shower and attempted to make myself presentable enough to go to work.
* * *
“Chef! Chef, where do you want these?” I yelled across the kitchen.
The workers were in the middle of their choreographed dance, manifesting a steaming cacophony of boiling pots and simmering saucepans, the aromas melding together in a mouth-watering, senses-awakening mélange.
Marciano took one look at the pile of Portobello mushrooms I’d just cleaned and de-stemmed, shaking his head at my cutting board. “I want them in a time machine and transported to tomorrow.”
“Huh?”
“I needed you to prep the creminis, not the Portabellos. The Portobello-filet special is tomorrow night. The Marsala is tonight.” He gave me a smack on the back of my skull as he added, “Today’s Wednesday , stunato.”
“Shit.” My head hadn’t really been attached to my neck for the past months, but today was even harder to get into the groove. “I’m sorry. I’m on it, Chef.”
“No, don’t bother. Put Franco on it. I need you on the pans anyway.”
It was a shit day to begin with, but my distracted brain hadn’t helped to make it any better. By the time I got home, I was whooped both physically and mentally.
And yet the one thing that had been hanging over my head all day still hadn’t been taken care of. I checked the clock and realized I could just make it under the wire. It wasn’t too late.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I picked up the phone and called her.
The sound of her simple “Hello” was enough to drain the blood from my body. I hadn’t heard her voice in five months, and the shock of hearing it now was overwhelming.
I cleared my throat and found my words. “Happy birthday, Bren.”
“Eddie? Is that you?” Her sigh of relief was almost too much to bear. But then she pulled herself together almost immediately to ask, “Are you okay? Is everything alright?”
No. Everything sucks. This divorce sucks. The universe sucks. Life sucks.
But instead of moaning that out loud to Bren, I lied, “Yes, Bren. Everything’s great. How about you?”
“I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
There was an awkward beat of silence until finally, I said, “I’m actually surprised I got you at the apartment. I guess I just figured you’d have some big birthday plans.”
She hedged for a moment before answering. “Well, I do. This time tomorrow, I’ll be in Paris.”
An even longer silence yawned uncomfortably as those words hung in the air between us. I could tell she was specifically avoiding Beau’s name but obviously, he was the person taking her to Paris. Even still, I was happy for her. She’d always wanted to go. I did, too. I just always thought I’d be the one to bring her.
“Paris, huh?” I didn’t try to hide my disappointment.
“Why do I feel like I need to apologize?”
“No. I think it’s great that you’re finally getting the chance to go.”
“But…?”
“I just always thought we’d get there together.”
An unspoken understanding passed between us, saying more than words ever could.
Her inhale broke the silence before she offered, “Well, it’s late. I guess we should say goodbye.”
Again.
“Yeah. Yeah, you’re probably right.” I
It seemed I had a lot of edges to deal with lately.
I stared at the familiar water stain on the ceiling, trying to make it form into a recognizable shape. A bear? Rhode Island? A demonic monster hellbent on ripping me apart?
The clock reminded me it was time to jog out of my stain-gazing, so I hopped in the shower and attempted to make myself presentable enough to go to work.
* * *
“Chef! Chef, where do you want these?” I yelled across the kitchen.
The workers were in the middle of their choreographed dance, manifesting a steaming cacophony of boiling pots and simmering saucepans, the aromas melding together in a mouth-watering, senses-awakening mélange.
Marciano took one look at the pile of Portobello mushrooms I’d just cleaned and de-stemmed, shaking his head at my cutting board. “I want them in a time machine and transported to tomorrow.”
“Huh?”
“I needed you to prep the creminis, not the Portabellos. The Portobello-filet special is tomorrow night. The Marsala is tonight.” He gave me a smack on the back of my skull as he added, “Today’s Wednesday , stunato.”
“Shit.” My head hadn’t really been attached to my neck for the past months, but today was even harder to get into the groove. “I’m sorry. I’m on it, Chef.”
“No, don’t bother. Put Franco on it. I need you on the pans anyway.”
It was a shit day to begin with, but my distracted brain hadn’t helped to make it any better. By the time I got home, I was whooped both physically and mentally.
And yet the one thing that had been hanging over my head all day still hadn’t been taken care of. I checked the clock and realized I could just make it under the wire. It wasn’t too late.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I picked up the phone and called her.
The sound of her simple “Hello” was enough to drain the blood from my body. I hadn’t heard her voice in five months, and the shock of hearing it now was overwhelming.
I cleared my throat and found my words. “Happy birthday, Bren.”
“Eddie? Is that you?” Her sigh of relief was almost too much to bear. But then she pulled herself together almost immediately to ask, “Are you okay? Is everything alright?”
No. Everything sucks. This divorce sucks. The universe sucks. Life sucks.
But instead of moaning that out loud to Bren, I lied, “Yes, Bren. Everything’s great. How about you?”
“I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
There was an awkward beat of silence until finally, I said, “I’m actually surprised I got you at the apartment. I guess I just figured you’d have some big birthday plans.”
She hedged for a moment before answering. “Well, I do. This time tomorrow, I’ll be in Paris.”
An even longer silence yawned uncomfortably as those words hung in the air between us. I could tell she was specifically avoiding Beau’s name but obviously, he was the person taking her to Paris. Even still, I was happy for her. She’d always wanted to go. I did, too. I just always thought I’d be the one to bring her.
“Paris, huh?” I didn’t try to hide my disappointment.
“Why do I feel like I need to apologize?”
“No. I think it’s great that you’re finally getting the chance to go.”
“But…?”
“I just always thought we’d get there together.”
An unspoken understanding passed between us, saying more than words ever could.
Her inhale broke the silence before she offered, “Well, it’s late. I guess we should say goodbye.”
Again.
“Yeah. Yeah, you’re probably right.” I
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