Hey Everyone! So since I missed the Sunday blog, I wanted to give a treat: “Lasagna”. This is a story I wrote for my friend on a dare, when I said any word she gave me I could write a story out of.
I was just being a cocky son of a bitch, but it actually turned into one of my favorite short stories I’ve every written.
So, to pay for my sinful transgressions, here’s “Lasagna”.
I met the worst thing to ever happen to me at a run-down diner on the outskirts of Chicago. I have never fallen so hard. She had a gorgeous laugh and a quirk of tapping her fingers on her thighs when she’s anxious. It didn’t take long after saying hello to get her to keep coming back for longer and longer, chatting me up. The woman was innocent and sweet with her ramblings of the beauty of cities and classic books she wished she understood and recipes she found on the internet that she never could get quite right. When I finally blurted out how much I disliked the pasta, and maybe she should try and make it better, it was already too late. She bit her lip and smiled, her suddenly still hands crossing in front of her, mentioning not-so-slyly how attractive I was.
That first time, she left her number on the check with a little star next to my name. I thought it was because I was special, because I was someone she’d want to see again and again. I called her the next day. She didn’t answer; she never answers when I call first.
Every morning I’m with her, it’s the touch of her skin. Each feel of her fingertips awakens the senses, and I believe, for a single second, that I am loved. It’s easy to forget when she’s not around, and I harken back to that dark corner that holds me, holds me harder than she ever does. It seems to only have gotten worse since I met her; as long as she’s not around, that is. She knows little of it, only allowing my freedom for her nights and her pleasures and then disappears in the morning, locking me away.
She seduces me with lasagna, isn’t that baffling? Promises the contents of her fridge and then leads me elsewhere. I know she’s leading me on, but I eat it anyway. She stares at me while I eat, always begging with her eyes to say yes to her irises even though I know will only bring me pain in the end. I pretend not to know, but I do. The meat is dry and the noodles are hard, but I swear to her that it’s always delicious.
Her lips perk up in a delicious smile, her skin looking enticing, her curves entrancing. I can barely eat looking at her. She’s funny and has a twinge in her laugh that makes my heart lose itself to her. I become helpless. Then there’s always that sick, nauseating feeling when her fingers stop twitching and lay flat on the table. It only gets better halfway through the meal when she licks her fork and swings her hips my way and suddenly I’ve regained my appetite.
I know I love her. She knows I love her, too, but she doesn’t care. She just plays with me at night and in the morning makes some excuse of how she must go. Ruffling my hair and saying thanks for the good time “sport”, like I’m some kid. I foolishly nod and let her walk out my door. Finally when I can’t see her rosy cheeks behind my eyes is when I kick the rug and throw away all the lasagna. I swear under my breath and in my head insist that I’m not a child. I am a man and my only crime is that I love her with all of my heart.
Yet love doesn’t seem to be enough for her and every Tuesday she proves that. The love’s not enough, the sex’s not enough, I’m not enough. Just another pretty toy to please her. Each Tuesday I almost decide to stop. But at the last minute she always mentions how great I look in the morning and compares me to a summer’s day, insisting I’d be a wonderful Hamlet.
Every Tuesday I come back. I always will. I will until the calls stop, and her beauty stops, and the world stops.
Maybe it’ll never stop.
I’ve found my soulmate over a plate of half-baked lasagna, but the funny thing is, she couldn’t care less.