Factting
He traces the raised outline of the tattoo from under his shirt. It still ached. And itched, now starting to scab. Her wine hasn’t stayed full. He doesn’t tell her he dropped his fork on the floor. Replaced it with hers while she went to the bar. She enjoys her rigatoni and doesn’t seem to mind. Why spoil it? He downs his water. Lemon was a nice touch. He eyes the waiter. Thanks him, with a wink. “…tomorrow at seven. So I need to be up at five.” He raises his eyebrows, “sucks.”
She pauses, finishes chewing. “You’re going to get germs in it.” He takes his hand out from under his sleeve. She picks around the pasta. “Every piece is the same. It’s pasta. What are you looking for in there?” She says nothing. Pokes around more. Finds her perfect piece. Watches him as she chews it. No expression. It is all inside. He is inside there too. He knows what is kicking around. Waits for it. Waits for it. It’ll come… “What’d they charge?” There it is. “Your pasta. My steak. That wine.” “Good. So I’m covering this.” “You’re idea.” “Thought it would be nice.” “Still thinking that?” She pauses.
“You say hurtful things. You probably don’t even realize they are hurtful when you say them.” “I’m trapped either way I answer.” “I’m not trapping. I’m factting…” she quickly corrects, “stating a fact.” “I like factting. I’m factting now. You’ve had three glasses of wine here. Two before we left. Five glasses of wine.” “I’m not the one with the problem.” He looks away. She sees him as he looks back quickly. Trying to hide. He picks up his water. “You say hurtful things. You probably don’t even realize they are hurtful when you say them.” “I’m just factting.”
“What if I said, now, I don’t want to be married to you anymore.” She stays cool. Keeps poking around her pasta. “I wouldn’t know what to say. How can you just react to that?” “So you wouldn’t say anything?” “Would you say it to begin with?” “I said it. What do you say?” “I don’t like this game anymore.” “It’s hard a fact.” She sets her fork against the plate. Shaken. Fights to hide it. “Stop it now.” “What?” “The witty banter. Who are you? Fucking Hemingway?” “He was never one for wit. More Wilde.” “He liked fucking boys.” “Yeah. Hemingway never liked that.”
She searches through her pasta. He waits. His hand finds its way up his shirtsleeve again. “Why would you say that?” He plays his fork around his plate. “I didn’t mean it.” He waits. She picks up her wine glass. Ignores his glare, even though he’s not watching. She knows he is. “You think I’d never do that. End this.” “It’s not in you. You care too much. About people. You’re aware.” “You told me that before.” He smiles. “Don’t pretend you remember. You never remember.” He smiles, but he knows she’s right. He doesn’t remember. “I meant it.” “You never said it.” “I just told you.” “It’s the wrong context.” “Still said it.” “Eat your steak.” “I’m not hungry.” “Then eat that fucking tattoo on your arm.”
With that, she’s up. To the bar. He watches her. Standing quietly at the bar. Composed. Withering beneath. He looks at his shirt. He has unknowingly lifted a scab. Blood feathers through. Absorbing his sleeve. He takes his coat. She watches him from the bar. He doesn’t push in his chair. She knows he did it on purpose. It always bothers her. That no one has manners anymore.
