Page 63 of The Moon Also Rises
If Rami were drinking it would be easy to blame what happened earlier in the kitchen on him also being intoxicated, but I can’t. He’s as sober as ever, and thanks to slowing down my intake, I also feel clear-headed enough to be completely over-thinking not only why he kissed me, but why he said what he said.
He’d been wanting to kiss me all evening? Does that mean he’s been thinking about our kiss on the bench in the same way I’ve been reliving it? Does he want to kiss me again? Does Rami want to domorewith me?
I barely taste my dessert as I ponder on this while Rami and Lionel talk about music – specifically soul artists from the 1970s and 1980s that both are impressively enthusiastic about – and Luigi is in the bathroom. In fact, he’s been gone quite some time. Long enough for me to excuse myself and go check on him. Lionel and Rami barely break their conversation as I get up and slip out of the room and down the corridor.
I knock on the door but hear nothing.
“Luigi,” I call out. “Are you okay?”
I hear a noise that could be him mumbling words, or it could be the sink gargling. But my sink doesn’t gargle.
“Luigi, can you let me in?”
More gargling comes and eventually the toilet flushes. A few thuds follow and then I hear a bang. There follow some Italian words which I would put money on being curses, and finally a loud thwack against the door.
“Too drunk to open it, sorry old boy,” Luigi slurs. “Fetch my darling husband, would you?”
Wide-eyed and possibly a little delighted that this suave Italian man I once wanted to cause grievous bodily harm to has come undone in my bathroom, I rush to get Lionel.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I think Luigi has passed out in the bathroom. He’s a little… drunk.”
“Oh, son of a bourbon biscuit. I knew I should have made him stop three glasses ago.” Lionel pushes up to stand but then he immediately plonks back down on his chair. “Oh fiddlesticks, I think I’m rather tipsy too.”
Rami stands up with complete success and looks at me. “Is he locked in there?”
“I believe so,” I say, still trying not to smile.
“Grab a blunt knife—” Rami begins.
“A blunt knife? In my kitchen? How very dare you!” I clutch imaginary pearls at my neck.
“I mean a knife that isn’t going to sever a digit if I slip while using it to open the bathroom door,” Rami explains with a roll of his eyes.
“You mean like a butter knife?”
“Yes, like that.”
I retrieve one from my cutlery drawer and then follow Rami to the bathroom. He starts to knock on the door, a little too gently in my opinion.
“Luigi, can you hear me?”
Nothing.
“Luigi, it’s Rami and Jake—”
“Jesus, who else is it going to be? Ronald Fucking McDonald?” I say to the ceiling, arms crossed.
“We’re going to open the door and come in to check on you now,” Rami says after fixing a hard stare on me. He holds out his hand for my butter knife.
I hand it over and watch him slide the end into the rivet in the outside of the lock that is currently showing red for locked. It turns to green easily and a moment later, Rami is pushing down on the handle. When he goes to push it open, it barely moves.
“He must be slumped against the door,” Rami mutters
“No shit, Sherlock,” I say.
“You know, you areextraunhelpful in a crisis.”
“This isn’t a crisis,” I scoff. “I could write you a list of one hundred dramas bigger than this that I have navigated not only myself but also hundreds of staff through in my time.”
