his. “Listen to me, Julia,” he said, his voice vibrating in his chest, against her ear. “We’re not going to elope, because you want a nice wedding. And that’s what we’re going to have.”
“How are we going to have a nice wedding when I can’t even agree with my mother about the food?” she mumbled into the curve of his neck. “And your parents are going to kill each other with butter knives, and—”
“Julia. All these problems you’re worrying about aren’t your problems. If your brother doesn’t like your mother’s fat-free cooking, he can get his ass in gear, find a job and buy his own food. If your grandmother doesn’t like it that Lyndon is preparing the dinner Friday night, explain to her that slavery was abolished a hundred forty years ago and she doesn’t own the guy. He’s free to cook for whomever he wants. And if mymother and father get into it, that’s their crap. Butter knives aren’t going to draw blood.”
She sighed. Ron was right. Even if he wasn’t, pretending he was soothed her. “In other words, you’re saying Friday night is going to go fine.”
“No. It’s going to be a disaster.” He chuckled. “But who cares?”
Three-thirtyish was a good time for Rick to visit Susie at Nico’s. Earlier, she’d be cleaning up from the lunch rush; later, she’d be prepping for the dinner rush. But at the afternoon’s midpoint, the downtown pizzeria experienced a lull, and Susie was usually available to talk then.
He paused outside the eatery to admire her latest window arrangement for the restaurant. A poster displayed the image of a young graduate robed in solemn black clutching a diploma rolled into a tube and tied with a red ribbon. In place of the standard mortarboard, the graduate wore a pizza, with stretchy strands of melted mozzarella dangling over the crust to resemble a tassel. A whiteboard propped next to the poster bore a poem in Susie’s even print, adorned with drawings of small red tomatoes:
To all who’ve had recent graduations,
Nico’s offers congratulations!
As you travel along life’s many stations,
May we be a part of your celebrations.
Now’s the time for some taste sensations,
Some shrimp or crab or other crustaceans.
We prepare our dishes with care and patience.
So come and try our tasty creations!
Shielding his eyes with his hand, he peered through the window into the café. An old guy was ensconced at a corner table, reading a newspaper. On the table in front of him sat one of those thimble-sized cups restaurants served espresso in. What a scam—put a few chintzy drops of bitter coffee in a dollhouse cup and charge twice as much as for an eight-ounce mug of regular joe.
He spotted Susie at another table, near the counter. She was busy doing something; he couldn’t tell what, but whatever it was, it couldn’t be that important. He pushed open the door and she looked toward him and smiled. The geezer with the overpriced espresso didn’t even glance up from his newspaper.
Rick crossed the dining room to Susie’s table. As he got closer he could see she was refilling table dispensers of grated Parmesan cheese. The dispensers stood in a row like large glass onions, their chrome lids unscrewed while Susie spooned the powdered cheese into them from a large plastic vat. The cheese was the same dingy color as Susie’s complexion. Her eyes were outlined in black, her lips tinted a ruby hue, but her cheeks were awfully pale. Give her a striped shirt, white gloves and a top hat, and she could pass as a street mime.
“Hey, cous’,” he greeted her.
She forced a vague smile. “What’s up? You hungry?”
“Always, Susie. Hunger is my middle name.”
“Richard Hunger Bloom. Yeah, I could see your mother saddling you with a name like that.” She screwed the cap onto one of the table shakers and pulled another closer to her for filling. “We might have an old slice of pizza destined for the trash. You want it?”
Jeez. She didn’t
“How are we going to have a nice wedding when I can’t even agree with my mother about the food?” she mumbled into the curve of his neck. “And your parents are going to kill each other with butter knives, and—”
“Julia. All these problems you’re worrying about aren’t your problems. If your brother doesn’t like your mother’s fat-free cooking, he can get his ass in gear, find a job and buy his own food. If your grandmother doesn’t like it that Lyndon is preparing the dinner Friday night, explain to her that slavery was abolished a hundred forty years ago and she doesn’t own the guy. He’s free to cook for whomever he wants. And if mymother and father get into it, that’s their crap. Butter knives aren’t going to draw blood.”
She sighed. Ron was right. Even if he wasn’t, pretending he was soothed her. “In other words, you’re saying Friday night is going to go fine.”
“No. It’s going to be a disaster.” He chuckled. “But who cares?”
Three-thirtyish was a good time for Rick to visit Susie at Nico’s. Earlier, she’d be cleaning up from the lunch rush; later, she’d be prepping for the dinner rush. But at the afternoon’s midpoint, the downtown pizzeria experienced a lull, and Susie was usually available to talk then.
He paused outside the eatery to admire her latest window arrangement for the restaurant. A poster displayed the image of a young graduate robed in solemn black clutching a diploma rolled into a tube and tied with a red ribbon. In place of the standard mortarboard, the graduate wore a pizza, with stretchy strands of melted mozzarella dangling over the crust to resemble a tassel. A whiteboard propped next to the poster bore a poem in Susie’s even print, adorned with drawings of small red tomatoes:
To all who’ve had recent graduations,
Nico’s offers congratulations!
As you travel along life’s many stations,
May we be a part of your celebrations.
Now’s the time for some taste sensations,
Some shrimp or crab or other crustaceans.
We prepare our dishes with care and patience.
So come and try our tasty creations!
Shielding his eyes with his hand, he peered through the window into the café. An old guy was ensconced at a corner table, reading a newspaper. On the table in front of him sat one of those thimble-sized cups restaurants served espresso in. What a scam—put a few chintzy drops of bitter coffee in a dollhouse cup and charge twice as much as for an eight-ounce mug of regular joe.
He spotted Susie at another table, near the counter. She was busy doing something; he couldn’t tell what, but whatever it was, it couldn’t be that important. He pushed open the door and she looked toward him and smiled. The geezer with the overpriced espresso didn’t even glance up from his newspaper.
Rick crossed the dining room to Susie’s table. As he got closer he could see she was refilling table dispensers of grated Parmesan cheese. The dispensers stood in a row like large glass onions, their chrome lids unscrewed while Susie spooned the powdered cheese into them from a large plastic vat. The cheese was the same dingy color as Susie’s complexion. Her eyes were outlined in black, her lips tinted a ruby hue, but her cheeks were awfully pale. Give her a striped shirt, white gloves and a top hat, and she could pass as a street mime.
“Hey, cous’,” he greeted her.
She forced a vague smile. “What’s up? You hungry?”
“Always, Susie. Hunger is my middle name.”
“Richard Hunger Bloom. Yeah, I could see your mother saddling you with a name like that.” She screwed the cap onto one of the table shakers and pulled another closer to her for filling. “We might have an old slice of pizza destined for the trash. You want it?”
Jeez. She didn’t
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