Buon Appetito
By Christy Hartman
I’m sure you hear my heart pounding as we settle onto the benches. For thirty years, a five-course meal at Antonio’s has been the backdrop for all our big news. Always this back corner booth, away from the noise of the long tables. Near enough to the kitchen to smell the crock of fresh garlic, but not so close to overhear the chef calling his sous idiota.
You proposed to me here, hiding the ring in my tiramisu. I told you I was pregnant here, both times the announcement poured from me before our water glasses had been filled. We celebrated your promotion to VP over Osso Bucco, planning how to spend the extra money as we sucked marrow from the bones. I’d drained three glasses of Barolo before I summoned the courage to share my cancer diagnosis. A year later we toasted its defeat with shots of limoncello on the house.
I choose tonight’s order carefully.
Aperitivo: A sweet Negroni has been my latest obsession, but tonight a bitter Aperol Spritz seems a more fitting way to announce the dramatic return of my tumour. A twist of lime to sour what should have been my five-year remission celebration.
Antipasto: For me, a simple focaccia with balsamic. I turn away from your burrata, my stomach lurching as the ooze of fresh cheese and charred cherry tomatoes swimming in olive oil turns to a spreading, festering wound on the plate.
Primo: Spicy Linguine Arrabbiata camouflages the fire in my cheeks. I blame the crushed red pepper and white wine instead of the shame I feel that my body has failed me again.
Secondo: Italian Wedding Risotto for our twenty-fifth anniversary. We’ll have to celebrate tonight. Chemo is going to cancel the Mediterranean cruise we had planned, like it ruined the party we’d painstakingly arranged for our twentieth.
Dolce: Affogato for two. Caffeine and sugar so we can stay awake until the wee hours. Drawing out this last evening before we are again consumed by doctors, therapy, cell counts and surgery. Your hand reaches across the table, lacing cool fingers with my sweaty, trembling ones. I will pour my searing anger and scorching fear onto your sweet, steady belief that I will be ok.
With the last bite savoured and the espresso cups empty, we reluctantly stand. I cling to your arm as we exit, leaving the confession in our booth. You promise we’ll be back soon to share more. Beneath the scar under my left breast, my heart is not convinced.
Christy Hartman is a Canadian short fiction writer based on stunning Vancouver Island. She is published in Elegant Literature, Bright Flash Literary Review, and Fairfield Scribes among others. When not writing, Christy can be found floating in the Pacific