"Let's just eat out of the pan," she says, as I'm reaching for two pasta bowls.
It's our pattern now; each hot pan of pasta is set between us on an iron trivet at the table. We talk. We twirl.
Sometimes we have appetizer plates for cutting things such as large shrimp, or we may have a side bowl to pile up empty clam shells.
We sit close. Her hands are rarely not touching me.
We share food while sharing truths.
"What was something Sarge did that irked you?" she asked halfway through our last dinner of linguine. That's what she has called Spoke from the beginning, being her respect for the man she never met but wishes to know much about. As a veteran, she has a bond with him, but by her many questions, she knows more about him than most people.
I swallowed hard. I thought hard. I drew a blank.
I tried to recall by categorizing: chores, leisure, money, sex, vacations, work...
Several bites later I put down my fork and wiped away tears.
Wow. Wow! There was nothing he did that irked me.
We've talked about it; of how easily new love can reach that stage. We talk a lot. We talk about everything.
But that night we cleared the table in silence, both of us amazed.
She poured us more wine. We sat back down. To talk.
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