Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
“I’ll have Italian”
They sat down at their table together, hesitant and facing each other a little awkwardly. The restaurant was a pretty old-style Italian bistro that looked cosy and inviting from the street, filled with warm wood, white tablecloths and bottles of wine lining the walls. They’d enjoyed many meals in this cosy candlelit space, but tonight they were led out the back and past the busy kitchen to the second dining room, which boasted twice the size of the front room and less than a quarter of the charm. Noise from the other patrons ricocheted off the white tile floor.
Arrangements to have dinner came about after they’d not seen each other for nearly three months, when one Friday morning, he packed up his belongings and disappeared from her home without saying a word.
He had a wife he was estranged from when the lovers met, and a son, a little boy of five. The pull of the familiar and familial was a strong one, riddled with unfinished business. He spirited himself away that Friday morning, quiet as a mouse, moving back to his old marital home and rekindling his previously unhappy marriage that now suddenly appeared rich with promise.
She got the first phone call from him the next Tuesday like nothing had happened, and soon received daily phone calls, and even more frequent emails. It was clear he was hoping to keep their love and relationship together despite powering ahead with the reconciliation.
She was the woman he loved, indeed the only woman he had ever loved. He lusted for her and didn’t want to have sex with his wife. She was the only one who had ever understood him and the only one for him. She was the only person he could be himself with. He was only back with his wife because of their child. The narrative continued, conveniently and selfishly compartmentalising his oblivious wife, his young child, and their shared home, as if his family was packed away in a neat little shoebox shoved under the passenger seat of his car.
She was disappointed in his lack of originality.
Somehow dinner in their favourite restaurant eventuated, and he arrived full of confidence that their love would withstand his renewed marriage. He could keep the woman he loved in his life, as well as enjoy the benefits of marriage and comforts that come from a nuclear family setting. He was a respectable family man back at home where he belonged, and a businessman building a business and a profile. He could make this work. His wife had set to posting their seven-year-old wedding photos to her Facebook page on an almost daily basis.
She arrived at the restaurant with the calm resolution that it would be the last time they would see each other.
The uncomfortable room had those harsh white floor tiles and tacky aged beige walls and the noise of the other diners was irritating. The couple hadn’t seen each other since he’d moved out and their conversation, peppered with banal trivialities like ‘how is work’ and ‘how is your dog’, was stilted.
Their Italian waiter, all white shirt, accent and barrel-chest, arrived with a fluster of energy to deliver their meals and wine. She had ordered pizza, he had ordered pasta, and the wine was a very necessary social lubricant.
The mood started to shift. They slowed their banal chatter, carefully designed to not impart any real information to each other, and started talking about the rich red wine and the food. Spoons reached, bread ripped, glasses clinked and the mood continued to move, focussing on the pleasures in front of them. He was swept away by how pretty her face was and the exuberant way she spoke with her hands. He was reminded, every time he looked at her or heard her speak, how much he loved her and why they fell in love. He was awash in warmth and knew he had to keep her in his life, no matter what.
She was also feeling that love, that warmth, and was quietly observing it almost like an anthropologist. She knew she loved him, she knew her heart was hurting, and she knew she was never going to see him again. She was no man’s mistress and despite his effort to avoid the topic, the marriage reconciliation was clearly still going ahead. Indeed, they were building a new house on a block of land they’d bought.
He continued eating, oblivious, devouring the hot italian food that made him feel safe, sure in his confidence that this amazing love they’d found would see them through anything and they’d be in each other’s lives forever. He had pulled it off and he had it all.
She slowly drank her red wine, savouring every mouthful and every morsel of food, knowing this was a meal of lasts. She doubted she’d come back to this restaurant again. It had been a favourite of theirs, and held so many memories. She knew with quiet conviction that she’d ensure she never saw him again.
They paid the bill and left, him happy in his secure knowledge was that she was his forever, her happy that she had one last delicious memory of him.