Page 6 of Irish Brute
“I’m not hungry,” she says.
I butter the toast as she pulls a bottle of Barolo out of a rack on the counter. She works the corkscrew as efficiently as she does everything else, and she pours two glasses with a generous hand.
I use the spatula to cut the omelet in two and slide both halves onto plates. I push hers toward the nearest bar stool at the high kitchen counter.
“I’m not hungry,” she repeats without sounding annoyed.
“Eat anyway.”
She pushes the plate away from her.
I plant my hands on the counter and let my Captain voice make my point. “Eat.”
Her eyes give her away. Her pupils dilate, crowding the whiskey brown with the only sign her system just took a hit of adrenaline. Otherwise, she holds herself completely in control.
She’s the type of woman my granny warned me about.
I wait.
She gives in first.
She picks up her fork and saws off a miniature bite. When she raises it to her lips, her face is still blank with defiance. I watch her melt as the flavor of egg and cheese and meat hits her tongue.
I don’t bother gloating. I just pile buttered toast on her plate.
I chew my own food slowly. If she wants to give me her lie about the phone call, now’s her chance.
She stares into her wine glass. Twirls the stem a quarter-turn between her fingers. Takes a healthy sip.
And she says, “The Department of Taxation should leave you alone for a while.”
I can afford to let her win. So I agree: “You handed them their arses.”
“Fucking idiots,” she says, and if there’s a touch of relief that I’ve let her off the hook, she covers it fast. “Hell of a way to start the new year.”
After that, we trade rubbish about the holidays, about how we both enjoyed some down time. She asks if I follow American football, and I allow how a man can’t live in Philadelphia without knowing the Eagles are good craic.
We manage to fill fifteen minutes, punctuating blather with food and wine. When our plates are empty, she carries hers to the sink. I start to roll up my sleeves, but she says she cleans because I cooked.
I step back and watch her work. We both pretend the flow of water makes it impossible to talk.
She waits until she’s drying her hands on a dish towel to say, “You aren’t getting back to Philadelphia in this weather.”
I look across to the living room window. The sun set maybe an hour ago, but the blowing snow reflects enough light to make the whole world gray. “Not tonight,” I say.
“You can sleep in my room. I put clean sheets on the bed. I’ll take the couch.”
As if I need clean sheets. I’m amused she made the decision without asking me. “The couch is fine for the likes of me,” I say.
“I insist.”
Icould insist. I could tell her exactly what we’re going to do, shut in by a snowstorm, isolated from the world. And when she says she’ll do nothing of the sort, I could call her on her lie, remind her we both know what happened in that elevator, the way she looked just before her fucking phone rang.
But her phone did ring.
And she’s still hollowed out from whatever it is she heard.
So I let her win again. I tell her I’ll sleep in the bedroom. And I accept when she says she’s exhausted, that she’s calling it a night. I take a refill on my wine and retreat down the hall.
