A Dish Fit For The Gods

My leg bounces up and down, the tic of a nervous person. I will my leg to stop. In replacement I begin biting my nails. I’ve been sitting at the kitchen counter repeating these nervous tics for about an hour - leg bouncing, nail biting, finger tapping - forcing myself to read this play. I begin spinning my wedding band around my finger. I check the clock. 4:15 PM. I look down at my page and reread the paragraph… 

“Let's be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius.

. . . And, gentle friends,

Let's kill him boldly, but not wrathfully;

Let's carve him as a dish fit for the gods,”

My mind stops here. The betrayal runs so deep in this story. Possibly like my own.. With my own husband. My best friend. My lover. Is it possible though? Could my husband be as insidious as Brutus? 

I can’t help but think this is some sick joke that we happen to be studying Julius Caesar in my master’s program at the same time I might be betrayed by my own best friend. 

My man who wore his heart on his sleeve… my tower of strength… my be-all and end-all. Et tu, Brute?

I met Antoni in Italy just five years ago, shortly after I moved here from the states. He was in a play that I saw with my roommate, he was playing a father. I will never forget what I felt when I first saw him speaking in his native tongue of sweet, blissful Italian on stage. So tall, deep tan skin, flowing brown hair, straight white teeth, I melted instantly. No wonder this man became famous overnight. 

My roommate invited me to the after party with the cast since she was dating the director. It was a small crew at a little bar, tucked on a tight street near the Trevi Fountain. Dim lighting ran through the whole room, tea light candles flickered down the bar and on the tables. I sat with Alessandra at the cement bar top, along with the director as we discussed our thoughts on his opening night. I sipped my red wine and we nibbled on spring vegetable bruschetta, cheeses, caprese salads, crostinis with pomegranate seeds. That’s when I saw him approaching us, I let my eyes meet his. 

He was so bold, maybe looking back that’s what gives me fear now. His ability to own a room, his confidence to swoon. But never arrogance, no. He has always been elegant, and graceful. Another reason I can’t wrap my brain around a betrayal by this man I love. He may be prideful in his work, in his looks, but rarely has pride slipped into the intricate thread of our relationship or into his role as a husband. 

He briefly shook the director’s hand, so poised even early in his acting career. He stepped up next to me, swept my thick brown hair away from my ear and bent low bringing his lips mere centimeters away from my ear… would you like to join me at a separate table? 

I turned toward him breathing in his minty breath… yes. He grabbed my hand and led me to a lone table in the corner. My whole body was like a magnet, absolutely and positively pulled to him. There was no resisting it, a moth drawn to a golden light. You, you, you. 

Antoni is my person. My mind, body, and soul felt it then and I feel it now. In my heart of hearts Antoni is there, flowing through my veins, whispering in my lungs.

But I can’t deny his odd behavior recently. The late nights, the quiet phone calls, the long weekends, dodging my questions. I know he’s an actor so the late nights and extended weekends aren’t totally out of character but his haphazardness is rather surprising. 

4:30.

My stomach knotted with apprehension as I remembered him sliding into bed last night quietly as a slithering snake… was he afraid I would confront him for yet another late night? A quiet phone call taken in the kitchen before coming to our room?

My mind flashes back to last week, another secretive call in the hallway of our apartment building. I could only hear muffled noises through the front door and when he came back in he came straight to me, cupping my face with both palms. He kissed me deeply then, running his hands down my back, gripping my thighs and hoisting me up. I wrapped my legs around him as he carried me to bed. I wasn’t even given a chance to ask who he was talking to on the phone. Now I wonder if he was distracting me from asking questions? What happened on the call that made him want me so suddenly? 

4:45. 

My mind has wandered far from my Julius Caesar at this point. I boil water on the stove top and make french press coffee, my nerves are already near boiling so, what the heck. While my coffee steeps I pull my thick brown hair into a bun atop my head, then pull the hair tie out letting it fall down. 

How will I confront Antoni? Do I make him squirm? Do I ask direct questions? Am I kind? Or harsh? I think if I tried to play Colonel Hans Landa my husband might just laugh. Can I be calm, cool, collected and sexy like Catherine Tramell? I know she’s the one being interrogated but Antoni might fall to his knees and confess all if I played the part well like she does.

5:00.

Surprisingly, the door swings open. Not another late night I guess. I forget all thoughts when I see him, all six foot two, warm eyes, and a half smile. Even if I came up with a thorough interrogation plan I would have gone astray. 

You, you, you

“Hi, hon.” He hangs his leather shoulder bag on a hook, rolls up his white sleeves as he makes his way to me on my stool. 

“Hi.” I manage to say without sounding shaky. 

He leans down and kisses me gently. “What’s wrong?”

I couldn’t even fool him for two minutes. He knows me probably better than I know myself, is it really possible he would–could–betray me like I think he did? Don’t I know his eyes shout YOU, YOU, YOU when he looks at me? Doesn’t my body know his hands crave the feel of my skin? It isn’t possible… even you, my love? 

“Are you cheating on me?” I guess straight and to the point is my method of choice. 

I’ve never seen him in so much shock. His eyes are wide, he doesn’t move a muscle. This can mean two things - 1) he’s surprised I caught him or 2) he can’t believe I would ever think something so horrible of him. I pray it’s the latter and begin to feel guilty.

“Sweetie, what? How could you say that?” 

I stand up and begin pacing the room back and forth, couch to kitchen, couch to kitchen while the accusations fly out of my mouth. “You’re out late, you’re working Saturdays and sometimes Sundays, you’re taking secretive phone calls, you’re acting strange, you’re dodging me…”

He stops me in my tracks putting his big hands on my shoulders. “Baby, look at me.” 

I raise my eyes to him. You, you, you. 

“I’m sorry I’ve been a bit off.” 

“You better explain yourself right now.” I say it with less than half the confidence I felt ten minutes ago.

“Ashley Harrison. Don’t you know my heart beats for you?” He lifts his hands to my jaw, angling my face up to his. I don’t answer him. “Don’t you know?”

“I know, but…”

“No. No buts.” He kisses my left jaw. “I wanted to surprise you.” He kisses my right jaw. “But I guess I’ll have to tell you.” He kisses my forehead. “I wrote a play and I’m working on directing and casting with Marco.” He kisses my lips sweetly and pulls back to look at me. 

“You wrote a play?”

“I wrote a play.” He pushes my hair back, running his fingers through my hair. “For you.” 

“Oh.” I really don’t know what to say. Now I’m shocked. 

Antoni leans down again pushing a deep kiss onto my lips, and slowly starts pushing me back, back, back until my legs run into the edge of the bed in our room. He lays me down and then planks himself over me. You, you, you. 

He looks at me, then begins placing gratifying kisses on my neck and finally whispers into my lips a dish fit for the gods.