Tales from Brooklyn: Short Stories About Love (Actually Sex): Part 8
by T. J. Clarke
“I haven’t seen Jason all week. He always says he is busy with bar stuff.” Dree pours herself another glass of wine, all the way to the top. “More?”
“No, I’m okay.” I stay in my seat and let her play hostess. She sets down in front of me a plate holding equal-sized portions of pasta and sauce. The pasta and the sauce don’t touch each other.
“It’s just annoying, you know, to have him so busy after finals and all that. I miss him. But of course I can’t tell him. It’s only been a week.” Dree is back from the kitchen. “I found these in the fridge. I think they’re still good.”
She puts down on the dining table an unopened package of Trader Joe’s prosciutto and the remainder of my fruit salad from lunch. She carefully removes a slice of prosciutto from its plastic backing and wraps the translucently thin meat around the last piece of cantaloupe. Her fingernails are painted lilac this week.
“Antipasti!” She laughs, falling to one side, her hand extending the offering of ham and fruit in my direction.
I open my mouth and let Dree place the fleshy morsel on my tongue. Both of her elbows are on the table; she is leaning forward. I catch her eyes and hold my gaze. Then slowly, carefully, I enclose the plump melon within the walls of my mouth, my tongue, then mashing out its juice with my teeth and tracing the salty residue of the prosciutto as it dissolves. She stares back at me. I lean in, close enough to touch my lip to hers. She takes a deep breath but still doesn’t say anything.
I pick up her wineglass and drain it. “Pour me another one?”
“Let me get you a new glass.” She hurries into the kitchen.
“Here you go.” A pink blush has alighted on her cheeks. Down below in the street, a car stopped at the traffic lights blasts “California Gurls,” the sound receding as the car drives away.
Dree picks up a slice of prosciutto and tears it into thin strips, carefully placing each strip on her plate. “Who still calls shorts Daisy Dukes?”
“The sauce is delicious.” I say before taking a bite of my food. “You are a regular Italian housewife.”
“So when are you taking the bar?” She asks, her eyes glancing from her wineglass to my plate, then settling on the pepper grinder.
“The last week in July. Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday.” I say.
“That’s soon.” She raises her eyes and smiles at me, “Jason has never been to California. Isn’t that funny?”
“What’s funny about it?” I watch her tear apart a second slice of prosciutto. I assess the situation: I got scared. Did she notice? Anything?
“He is so well traveled otherwise. Austria, London, Taiwan, just never been to California.” The oven timer beeps. Dree looks at me, puzzled. “The corn bread! Fuck!” She runs back into the kitchen.
I never eat at the dining table. Sitting here offers a different perspective on the room: Every piece of furniture is in the same spot as when I first moved in. The television and couch stand near the entrance, to their right is the dining table with its three mismatched chairs. My friend Tracy moved away last year and gave me her curtains, so that’s something different. Sliding doors divide the rooms-each one twenty square feet larger than the next-from west to east: kitchen, dining/living room, and then my bedroom/bathroom. Three years in New York and I am still in the same apartment. I don’t know if that says anything about me.
“They’re kind of burnt. I think I had the temperature too high.” She is disappointed. “So do you think you are ready for the bar?”
“Yeah.” I try to pick up one of the corn breads; it is too hot.
“You think you’ll stay in California after the bar?” Her cheeks are still pink, most likely from the wine though.
“I haven’t decided yet. Maybe.” Now I am not even sure she perceived my earlier, feeble attempt at seduction. “I am staying at a hotel for the bar. Then I’ll be there for another week house-sitting for a friend.” The friend is actually one of Nan’s childhood friends, someone I have never met.
“Well, that sounds like fun.” She smiles. “I’ll miss you.”
T. J. Clarke is the pen name of a struggling writer. She lives in Brooklyn.