Pasta Carbonara

“One tablespoon of black pepper.”

“That can’t be right.”

“Is that too much? A tablespoon can’t be that... OK, that’s a lot of pepper.”

“It says one teaspoon. Check the recipe.”

“I think I did need my glasses. Should I pour the rest back, then?”

“Why don’t you take over the pancetta? The spaghetti should be almost done too.”

“This smells amazing, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Just like Italy, right?”

“Yep.”

“Remember the night we first had this? That little hole-in-the-wall place with the broken lightbulb above the entrance. We walked in and everyone gave us a weird look, but a waiter sat us down at a table anyway. They had those red checkered tablecloths, and you thought they were cute so you snapped a photo with your camera. I see you trying to hide your smile. You remember.”

“The flash was on. Then we really got some weird stares.

“The food was worth it though. Best carbonara of my life.”

“Yes. That was a good night.

“The air on our way back to the hotel smelled like gardenias, like the ones your mother used to grow in her garden, remember?”

“I remember getting lost on the way to the hotel.”

“Not lost. We simply took the long way back.”

“We need six eggs. Did you buy more this morning?”

“You wrote me a grocery list, so yes. Eggs were circled in red.”

“We can’t make carbonara without eggs.”

“Some people use heavy cream.”

“My Italian ancestors would roll in their grave.”

“Oh, you’ll never guess who I ran into. Mark—Lakin’s dad, from little league. He was buying a bunch of mustard. I swear he had like five bottles in his cart. I don’t know why he’d need so much.”

“Did you ask him?”

“No, we didn’t really talk. He just waved. He probably didn’t know what to say. A part of me wanted to go up to him.

“He wouldn’t have said anything we haven’t heard before.”

“Maybe. I’d just wish he hadn’t avoided me.”

“If we lived in a big city, no one would know who we were. They wouldn’t even nod at us. We’d be invisible.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Some days. Careful—are you OK?”

“I’m fine. It was my fault.”

“Here, run your hand under water.”

“I’m fine, sweetheart.”

“Your skin is already turning red. Cool water only. Keep it there for a minute or two. Don’t worry about the pan. I’ll turn down the heat.”

“Do you really want to leave?”

“The pasta should definitely be ready now. How’s your hand? I need to drain the pot.”

“Go for it.”

“Could you mix the pecorino with the eggs?”

“If you really want to leave, we should talk about it. Communication. That’s what Stephanie keeps telling us, right? This sounds like a conversation we need to have.”

“Right now?”

“Why not?”

“I’m exhausted. To be honest, right now, I just want to finish making dinner.”

“This is supposed to be bringing us closer.”

“I know, but—”

“But there’s always something. There's never a good time, and there will never be. You’re going through the motions. You think I'll ignore it, and maybe I have been, but I can't keep doing that. We come home from work, we go see Stephanie, you hardly say a word, and we come right back home. We have this fight. We agree to do better next time, and then we tiptoe around each other. And for what? To do it all again a few days later.”

“I’m trying. You know I try every day.”

“So answer me. Do you want to leave this place? Or do you… Do you want to leave me?”

“No. Obviously not. Never. Why would you even ask me that?”

“You act like the question is coming out of nowhere, but can you— stop whisking, for the love of God just—Can you honestly look me in the eye and tell me you haven’t thought about it?”

“Yes, I can look you in the eye and say that I have never thought about leaving you. Can we get back to making dinner?”

“No. Look at me. We are not OK, and that’s fine. Nobody is expecting us to be OK. But, we will never be OK if we continue like this.”

“I don’t know what you want me to do. I don’t know what else to do.”

“You could say his name. Say his name. Anthony. Say it.”

“I know his name. I feel it, every day. Here. I feel it right here. And it is suffocating. Evert morning, I wake up and I feel like I can’t breathe. Every time I walk past his door, every time I close my eyes, I remember the dimples in his cheeks—Your dimples—and every time I find one of his stray socks in the laundry—still, months later, because you both go through a million pairs a year— I feel like someone is holding me by my throat and squeezing me dry. And I want them too, because at least I would feel something other than this. This loathing.”

“It wasn’t your fault. You know it wasn’t.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“No, sweetheart. It wasn’t.”

“I turned my back for a second.”

“You loved him more than anything else in this life. It wasn’t your fault. It will never be your fault, and I will keep reminding you of that every day; morning, noon, and night, if I need to. I’ll say it when you need to hear it, and when you don’t want to hear it.”

“God. The pasta.”

“Extra seasoning.”

“Disgusting.”

“Maybe, but it made you smile a little.”

“I hope you’re happy. You’ll be having dinner with a side of snot.”

“I love you.”

“You’re stronger than I am… We should get on with it. Hand me the eggs?”

“They just go in raw like that?”

“What do you think we ate in Italy?”

“Maybe you should go nice and easy. Not too fast.”

“No, I have to be fast here. Otherwise, it’ll curdle, and we’ve put in far too much effort tonight to have spaghetti alla eggs.”