Papa Luigi's Revenge

“Really? This is the place?” I said out loud to myself, as I pulled the keys from the ignition of my old rusty yet faithful Toyota Camry. Looking at the yellow post-it note I had stuck to the dash, I checked the name I had scribbled down—Papa Luigi’s. Looking back up at the establishment across the street confirmed it. Getting out of the car I triple clicked the button on my key fob—not knowing the neighborhood but knowing what Papa Luigi’s looked like, I definitely had little trust for the area.

Papa Luigi’s was what might be considered a hole in the wall, but not one of those that “secretly has the best sauce in town” type of hole in the wall. More like the type whose most frequent clients are roaches.

Talking to myself again as I crossed the street I muttered, “I suppose fine dining isn’t exactly the right environment to sign divorce papers, but really? A one-star restaurant?”

A bell jingled as I pushed open the door, and I was greeted with a hand scrawled sign taped to the host stand that read, “Please wait to be seated.” I stood there for an uncomfortable amount of time, looking around the empty restaurant, observing the peeling yellow paint on the wall, the dust on the leaves of the fake plants, and the ancient jukebox with yet another handwritten sign reading “Out of order.”

Eventually a middle-aged woman emerged from the back, blonde hair with obvious grey roots peeking through swept up in a messy bun. I could smell the cloud of cigarette smoke on her wafting from across the room long before she arrived at the host stand.

“Just you?” She croaked, avoiding eye contact.

“No, two. Well, I guess three” I stated, remembering that Paul would be bringing his friend Lisa who happened to be a notary public to make our documents official.

She led me to a booth in the back, unfortunately far from any natural lighting. To no surprise, the pleather seat was well worn and sported a couple distinct tears with stuffing sneezing through. The table was lined with a grimy silver metal border and boasted a laminate top that was once red and white checkered, but had faded to a pink and off-white. Lovingly carved in the corner were the words, “Fuck you.”

The bell jingled on the door again, and I looked up from the food stained menu to see Paul, my soon-to-be-ex husband walking in the door with a grin. A wide grin. A suspiciously wide grin, with an elated energy emitting from him.

“Sharon!” he jollily called my name as he strolled over to the booth. He wrapped his arms around me in what could only be described as a bear hug, which was strange because we probably hadn’t had physical contact with each other in over a year, and after some of the ugly points in the divorce process I assumed we never would.

He slid into the bench across from me, looked around, and in a bubbly voice said, “Boy this place sure has some great character.”

Caught off guard by his whole manner, I was momentarily speechless. Pulling myself together, I pointedly asked, “Where’s the notary? What’s her name, Lisa?”

“Oh she’ll be here in a minute. She had to squeeze us in during her lunch break.”

I noticed he was wearing a button up shirt. It was clean, and lacked wrinkles. “Who is this new Paul?” I though to myself.

The waitress shuffled over to the table and slightly nodded her head, what I supposed was an acknowledgement of Paul’s presence.

“Drinks?” she muttered.

“Water’s fine with me,” I volunteered.

Paul chimed in, saying, “I’ll have a Coke. And our joiner would like a Diet Coke, no ice, with a lemon on the side.”

This was curious to me. Why did he know her drink order so specifically? And why did he even feel the need to order for her? Before I could overthink it, the bell once again jingled, distracting me. 

Looking up I saw a tall brunette, dressed business professional yet oozing sensuality. Her blue heels accentuated her perfectly tout calfs, and the blazer modestly but tightly buttoned across her chest taunted the gazer to know what was underneath. I looked over at Paul quizzically to see if this woman could possibly be the friend who was meeting us, and his face said it all. He was staring at her, that big wide grin once again upon his face, completely enamored.

She strolled over to our table like a model on a catwalk, extended her hand to me and ventured, “You must be Sharon, I’m Lisa.”

Dazed, I nodded and shook her hand. She slid into the booth next to Paul, kissed his cheek and purred, “Hello darling. I’m so sorry if you two have been waiting long.”

I was utterly shocked. How wildly inappropriate was this to have his new lover notarize our divorce papers? Though the divorce had been a long time coming and I felt I had confidently moved on, this hurt. In fact, it was agonizing. Before I was forced to make small talk, the waitress slid our drinks onto the table. She produced three straws from her apron whose paper wrappers looked as if they had seen better days.

I don’t remember much of what happened the rest of the meal. I felt traumatized watching Paul and Lisa sit all too close to each other, cooing and laughing. I think I ordered spaghetti, and faintly remember the red sauce being nothing more than bland tomato paste and the garlic bread being chewy. I was seriously debating Googling a hypnotherapist right there and then, hoping I’d quickly be able to block this memory from my psyche.

Though there were disastrous parts of our divorce process, we remained civilized enough to opt to do it without lawyers. All we needed was to fill out the paperwork stating what each person would claim, get it notarized, and show up briefly in court to have it finalized. This felt like a good idea at the time, but I was having second thoughts as the blood raged through my veins watching the two of them flirt.

“Alright, I suppose it’s time we do what we came here to do,” said Paul gleefully, pulling a stack of papers out of the beat up leather briefcase I got him for our first anniversary. He had a twinkle in his eye, which added salt to my already gaping wound.

“Sharon, we have a surprise for you,” he started. Reaching for Lisa’s hand he continued, “I’ve decided to let you have everything. Seriously, everything. Lisa and I are so in love that I realized I don’t need physical things to be happy. And if it weren’t for this divorce we wouldn’t be together. This is my—our—way of saying thank you.”

I looked first at Paul, then at Lisa in disbelief. Lisa smiled, flashing her perfectly white straight teeth and nodded. I was speechless, unsure if this was a cruel joke. Paul pushed the stack of papers over to my side of the table for me to look through. I read through all the tedious details, slowly realizing that it was real. We each signed and initialed the pages requiring such, and Lisa notarized it with the fancy raised stamp she kept in her purse. After paying for all three of our meals, they stood up to go and each gave me a somewhat awkward hug.

Sitting in the booth still in a daze, I waited for our waitress to return with a to-go box for my tasteless pasta. When she showed back up she had a knowing smile on her face and chuckled, “Whelp, she got another one.”

Unsure I heard her correctly, I cocked my head towards her and murmured, “What?”

She lowered herself into the booth next to me and for the first time of the day made eye contact with me, explaining, “Lisa. She’s not in love. Not this time, not last time. She never is. She’s Papa Luigi’s daughter, so she always brings them here.”

I gave her a confused look and she continued, “It’s her M.O. She finds selfish men in the midst of a divorce and lures them in. She’s a looker, so they easily fall for her. She then convinces them to leave everything to their ex-wives, and even makes them think it was their idea. ”

Pushing herself back up from the table she started to hobble away, but turned back one more time and muttered, “A real femme fatale that one.”