because I do it, doesn’t mean I can’t live without it.”
It was a good point, but the way he was staring directly into my eyes made the comment seem more meaningful than it should have been, and his voice was too even in contrast to the humor I was trying to affect. When the silence stalled and I failed to think of an appropriate response, he shook his head to denounce the topic.
“White bread okay?”
“Sure.”
Nunzio grabbed a loaf of bread and tossed it at me before placing the plate and pan of eggs on the table. He sat in the opposite chair, our legs bunched under the table and knees brushing, while I filled four bread slices with crisp bacon and unloaded the eggs equally into our plates. I had a sudden mental image of us cutting school in ninth grade and making the same breakfast for ourselves because we had both been too broke to get anything from the bodega.
I nudged a plate in his direction, and he nodded at me.
“Grazie.”
“De nada.”
He smiled and stubbed out his cigarette on the windowsill.
I watched him eat without touching my own sandwich and listened to the sounds of Midtown floating in from the sidewalk—honking horns, the random clip-clop of hooves from the horses used for the carriages in Central Park, and a constant hum of voices twined together, indistinguishable but impossible to ignore.
The neighborhood we grew up in had such a different ambiance that it had always felt alien for me to wake up in the middle of Manhattan, even if I had been glad to move out of Queens. Midtown was too crowded, too busy, too expensive, and never slowed down. Lying on my bed with the sound of constant traffic and the steady stream of passing pedestrians hadn’t contended with the memory of stretching out in my sweltering room in Queens while listening to the faint sound of salsa outside, and the ringing bell of the piragua guy.
Nostalgia had a way of putting me in a rotten mood, and now wasn’t an exception. I slumped in my seat and extended my legs until they slid between Nunzio’s. He knocked his knee against mine and jutted his chin at my plate.
“What’s wrong?
“Nothing.”
Nunzio didn’t look convinced, so I picked up my sandwich to appease his concern. I felt his watchfulness even though I didn’t meet his eyes. There were multiple pros and cons of bringing up what had happened between us, but avoiding the conversation weighed heavier on the side of bad fucking idea .
“So,” I said, “about last night.”
“What about it?” he asked around a mouthful of bread.
“I was pretty drunk.”
“You wasn’t that drunk.”
“I know, but I wouldn’t have been all over you like that if I’d been sober.”
“Uh-huh.” Nunzio brushed his hands together, raining crumbs on the plate. “So explain to me why you were never all over me when we went out drinking in the past. We used to do it two or three times a week when we were kids.”
“Back then I had never—” I faltered, unsure of where I’d been going with that. “Look, I’d never thought about it back then. It was never an option when we were twenty-two, drunk, and horny. But after that night in July, I knew the situation.”
“You could be a little more specific, Mikey. You knew what situation?”
I combed both hands through my hair, rolling my eyes at the impatience in his voice. “Jesus, Nunzio, you know what I mean. After July, I had a taste, knew it was amazing, and now apparently when I’m drunk and horny, my brain says it’s an option to have some more of the Kool-Aid.”
“All right,” Nunzio said, spreading his hands. “So what’s the problem?”
“There’s no problem.”
“Then why are you making it sound weird?”
I gave him the what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about squint. “Mira, Nunzio, it’s not about weird. I’m not fucking insulting your sexual prowess by saying I was drunk and that’s why I stumbled in here and threw myself on top of you.”
“Okay, but you’re still using the
It was a good point, but the way he was staring directly into my eyes made the comment seem more meaningful than it should have been, and his voice was too even in contrast to the humor I was trying to affect. When the silence stalled and I failed to think of an appropriate response, he shook his head to denounce the topic.
“White bread okay?”
“Sure.”
Nunzio grabbed a loaf of bread and tossed it at me before placing the plate and pan of eggs on the table. He sat in the opposite chair, our legs bunched under the table and knees brushing, while I filled four bread slices with crisp bacon and unloaded the eggs equally into our plates. I had a sudden mental image of us cutting school in ninth grade and making the same breakfast for ourselves because we had both been too broke to get anything from the bodega.
I nudged a plate in his direction, and he nodded at me.
“Grazie.”
“De nada.”
He smiled and stubbed out his cigarette on the windowsill.
I watched him eat without touching my own sandwich and listened to the sounds of Midtown floating in from the sidewalk—honking horns, the random clip-clop of hooves from the horses used for the carriages in Central Park, and a constant hum of voices twined together, indistinguishable but impossible to ignore.
The neighborhood we grew up in had such a different ambiance that it had always felt alien for me to wake up in the middle of Manhattan, even if I had been glad to move out of Queens. Midtown was too crowded, too busy, too expensive, and never slowed down. Lying on my bed with the sound of constant traffic and the steady stream of passing pedestrians hadn’t contended with the memory of stretching out in my sweltering room in Queens while listening to the faint sound of salsa outside, and the ringing bell of the piragua guy.
Nostalgia had a way of putting me in a rotten mood, and now wasn’t an exception. I slumped in my seat and extended my legs until they slid between Nunzio’s. He knocked his knee against mine and jutted his chin at my plate.
“What’s wrong?
“Nothing.”
Nunzio didn’t look convinced, so I picked up my sandwich to appease his concern. I felt his watchfulness even though I didn’t meet his eyes. There were multiple pros and cons of bringing up what had happened between us, but avoiding the conversation weighed heavier on the side of bad fucking idea .
“So,” I said, “about last night.”
“What about it?” he asked around a mouthful of bread.
“I was pretty drunk.”
“You wasn’t that drunk.”
“I know, but I wouldn’t have been all over you like that if I’d been sober.”
“Uh-huh.” Nunzio brushed his hands together, raining crumbs on the plate. “So explain to me why you were never all over me when we went out drinking in the past. We used to do it two or three times a week when we were kids.”
“Back then I had never—” I faltered, unsure of where I’d been going with that. “Look, I’d never thought about it back then. It was never an option when we were twenty-two, drunk, and horny. But after that night in July, I knew the situation.”
“You could be a little more specific, Mikey. You knew what situation?”
I combed both hands through my hair, rolling my eyes at the impatience in his voice. “Jesus, Nunzio, you know what I mean. After July, I had a taste, knew it was amazing, and now apparently when I’m drunk and horny, my brain says it’s an option to have some more of the Kool-Aid.”
“All right,” Nunzio said, spreading his hands. “So what’s the problem?”
“There’s no problem.”
“Then why are you making it sound weird?”
I gave him the what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about squint. “Mira, Nunzio, it’s not about weird. I’m not fucking insulting your sexual prowess by saying I was drunk and that’s why I stumbled in here and threw myself on top of you.”
“Okay, but you’re still using the
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