Page 68 of Rome: The Ballerina

Six.

I allowed her to have it back after six seconds. She stepped back, struggling to catch her breath. I’d stolen it all. My lungs were at capacity as I pushed out the words that would haunt me all night if I didn’t release them.

“For the record, Rome, I’m not clueless. I’m captivated–and utterly curious.”

I rejoined my family at the golf cart. Silence toyed between us. Everyone was lost in their own thoughts. I couldn’t help but want to be lost in hers, too. I didn’t have to wait long for it all to make sense. It was beginning to make sense already.

“You know, son, five years ain’t so bad. Wait a little longer, and I promise that situation will work itself out. The solution was just staring you dead in that ugly ass face of yours.”

With glee, he started the engine of the cart and reversed out of the driveway. Though he was ignorant half the time, he was hardly ever wrong.

My belly rumbled from hunger.Still, my lack of appetite didn’t allow me to feel a particular way about Aliza breaking another promise to prepare dinner.

“Ummmm–” she praised the company she’d chosen off an app on her phone. “This is unbelievable. Baby, have some… seriously.”

She’d been feasting on Chinese takeout for the last ten minutes. And, while it wasn’t a protein-packed serving on a dinner plate in front of me, it was satisfying watching her consume spoonful after spoonful of rice. She’d broken her fast.

“And the spring roll–” she marveled at the half eaten one in her hand. “You have to try one.”

Silently, I rejoiced every time her spoon touched her lips. Her quest to convince me to join her started long before the food arrived. However, I was uninterested, especially in dishes that weren’t prepared in the kitchen as she’d promised.

I shook my head. “Go ahead, baby.”

“Are you upset with me?” She inquired, placing the spring roll on the napkin next to the styrofoam box that held the heap of rice she was putting a large dent in.

I shook my head again. “I’m not, Aliza.”

“Then eat. I know you’re hungry.”

Not for food, love.

“I’m fine.”

“This is my punishment– this is my punishment for not cooking dinner.”

“I would’ve cooked dinner myself had I known you wouldn’t,” I admitted, “But this has nothing to do with dinner. I’m just– not in the mood for Chinese or takeout. Has nothing to do with you, Aliza. All me,” I explained, placing a hand on my chest.

And her.

“Well, I feel awful,” she lied.

Tittering, I watched her put another spoonful of rice in her mouth.

“No you’re not.”

Her lies were hilarious. Far from offensive because I knew she didn’t mean any harm by them. They just fell out of her mouth before she knew what she was saying.

Chuckling, she nodded.

“Okay, that was a lie. But, that’s not the point here. I– Sometimes I just feel like I won’t ever be the woman, the wife you imagined marrying and creating a life with. You prefersomeone that’s a homemaker. A woman who cooks. Cleans. Waits on you hand and foot. G–”

“I prefer a woman to be herself, Aliza. Whoever she might be. I’m no fool. When I put that ring on your finger, I knew you weren’t a homemaker. And, I’m not trying to make you one, either. I’m just trying to get you to understand the importance of keeping the promises you make.

“Whether it be making dinner or making dinner reservations. Whatever you choose to do in this relationship, love, I just want you to do it well. And do it right. And, not cause confusion when clarity is our goal. That’s not too much to ask.

My mother is my nutritionist and personal chef. I’ll never miss a meal unless you’ve promised me one. You understand how that works?”

“Yes.”

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