February 14th
It's Friday night and they're headed out for the first time in what seems like an eternity. Not just because it's Valentine's Day, but for once it hasn't snowed and the roads are passable.
"Let's have dinner at Poppi's," Roz suggested a few days back. "It's been a while since we've had an evening together, and I'm in the mood for some pizza before we go to the movies."
That's an idea Greg can endorse. A night out with his wife will not only earn him good standing with her, it can also be seen as a gesture to honor the spurious holiday foisted on them. "Only if we get to shower together," he says, and leers at her.
"I'll take that action," Roz says in an ominous tone, and narrows her eyes in return—her 'I double-dog dare you' look.
So they end up under the steamy spray, and soap each other with a purpose beyond cleanliness. Under his hands her body feels like warm silk, smooth and yielding. They sigh and groan softly as they make love; the water turns everything slick and slippery and twice as pleasurable when orgasm takes them both.
The hot water is nearly gone by the time they get out. While Greg rummages in the dresser for clean jeans and a favorite shirt, Roz chooses the outfit he likes best on her besides her birthday suit—her dark green silk sweater and black velvet slacks. She goes off to do her hair and makeup while he gets into his own clothes. When she returns she's wearing the diamond stud earrings he gave her. They wink and glitter in the soft light. She looks incredible, elegant and cool; the shimmering deep greeny-black of the sweater brings out the subtle color of her eyes. She comes to him and brushes a kiss over his lips before she takes a comb from the dresser and neatens what's left of his hair. She smells faintly of lavender and flowers, that spicy-floral scent he associates with her now.
"It looks like I have more if I don't flatten it down," he whines as he tries to evade the comb. "Don't put a part in it, for god's sake!"
"No, it looks like you're afraid to touch it because the rest of it will come out. And I didn't give you a part." She tucks an errant lock behind his ear. "You need to get it cut. Gordy's shop should be open this weekend if they can keep things dug out, I'll drop you off and pick up some groceries while you're there."
He takes a surreptitious glance in the mirror when she goes out ahead of him. The bald spot is very much on display—no surprises there, it's like a wintertime road pothole, it gets bigger every day—but she's made what's left look okay. And she's right, his hair does need to be mowed. He pokes at it just on principle, then follows after her.
They take Barbarella into the village. Everything is white, buried under both snow and salt. There are a few downed trees, a couple of cars in the ditch, mailboxes bent by plows. Roz watches it all go by, but Greg can tell she doesn't see what's outside the window. "Nice scenery," he comments. She doesn't say anything at first.
"Do you ever think of Tuscany? I mean, our honeymoon?" she says finally.
"When I've got nothing better to do," he says, wary of where this will lead.
"I'm not saying I want to go there again, though it would be nice. Just . . . going someplace else for a little while. A change of scenery."
"There's a conference in Miami. In April," Greg says. He is astonished to hear the words come tumbling out of his mouth. "We could stay for a week, go down to New York for the weekend before."
Roz turns her head to look at him, clearly surprised. "You want to go? You-you want me to come with you?"
In for a penny, in for a pound, as his mother always said. "I hadn't planned to go, but it's a good excuse to get out of here for a week and take you with me."
She watches him, a steady, clear look that makes him nervous. "All right," she says at last. She sounds pleased. Great, now he'll have to get everything arranged. Good thing he's got McMurphy to deal with the details.
They arrive at the restaurant to find it's busy—Friday night on a romantic holiday is good business. Sarah greets them at the register. She wears a red apron over her black sweater and jeans. A pair of sparkly red heart-shaped deely-boppers float and waver above her bright auburn curls. "Welcome to Lou's!" she says with a grin. "Happy Valentine's Day, you two sweeties!"
"Oh balls," Greg groans, and Sarah laughs before she escorts them to a table. Jason clears away dishes; he too wears a red apron, but is spared the indignity of the deely-boppers at least. He sees them, sees Roz, and his eyes widen just a little before he wipes the table-top with care and leaves with the tub of dirty plates and silverware. As they sit down Sarah takes out her pad and pencil.
"What can I get you two lovebirds?"
"I want a Coke and a double order of mozzarella sticks," Roz says, "with a vat of Poppi's marinara sauce."
"Double order, vat. Got it," Sarah says as she writes, and give Greg an inquiring look. "You?"
He's still in shock that Roz didn't order her usual antipasto. "Uh—double order of onion rings, extra crispy. And a beer."
"You mean a Coke. In other words, the usual." Sarah jots it down and tucks the pad in her apron pocket. "Okay, drinks coming up in a couple of minutes." She nods at them and sends the little floaty hearts above her head a-quiver, then goes to the kitchen. Roz chuckles.
"She's having fun," she says, and reaches out to put her hand over his. When he rolls his eyes she laughs again. "It's Valentine's. I'm allowed to hold your hand in public."
"Any excuse to cop a feel," he says, but lets her hand stay where it is. He won't admit he enjoys her touch.
"Did you mean it? About the conference?" Her expression is carefully neutral, but her gaze holds such hope, he can't bring himself stomp all over her expectations, much as it'll cost him later.
"Yes," he sighs in martyred resignation. Roz rolls her eyes at him as Sarah brings their drinks.
"Now that's the spirit!" she says, and sets the Cokes down in front of them.
"Needs a bourbon chaser," Greg says. Sarah glances at him, amused. He stares back at her, affronted. I could trash this, he says silently. I could wipe the smiles off every face in this place, destroy every shred of joy and happiness, make my wife cry, just for shits and giggles.
"But you won't," Sarah says softly. She puts a straw by his drink. "What's for dinner?"
"A large pizza," Roz says before he can answer. "Pecorino and mozzarella, with Poppi's fresh-herb blend under Parma ham, green sweet peppers, red onions and black olives on one half, sausage, pepperoni, ham and meatballs on the other. Use the good extra-virgin to dress it when it comes out, please. Oh, and hot peppers on the side."
"What she said," Greg says. It's her favorite pizza and his too; his mouth waters already.
"Okey-doke. Starters coming up," Sarah says cheerfully, and goes off to another table to take orders.
"You won't what?" Roz wants to know. Greg leers at her.
"Lay you on the table and ravish every inch," he says, and hides his relief when she laughs.
"Damn, another opportunity missed," she says, and leans in to take a sip of his Coke and leave her lipstick on his straw. Unfortunately for him that's not a metaphor.
When Jason brings out the appetizers he places the carefully arranged mozzarella sticks and the large bowl of marinara sauce in front of Roz, with all the delicacy of a maitre'd who offers vichysoisse to a princess. Once this task is done he slaps the plate of onion rings down by Greg and departs. Roz sits back. Greg can almost hear her fizz with suppressed laughter.
"Good service here," she says when she can speak. She picks up a mozzarella stick, dunks it in the sauce and eats half of it. She doesn't spill a single drop, a skill Greg finds enviable. A look of bliss spreads over her angular features, softens them for a moment. He takes two of the onion rings, folds them in half, and crams them in, savors the caramelized flavor while he burns the roof of his mouth with his impatience.
"Opposite time of the month," he says after he swallows and takes a gulp of Coke. Roz opens her eyes and gives him a quizzical look. "You usually crave cheese and acidic foods when you're ovulating." The moment that last word leaves his lips he wishes he could call it back; despite his defiant thoughts earlier, he has no real desire to harm anyone, especially his wife. She tilts her head to one side, considers what he's said, but there's no recrimination or pain in her eyes, in her expression; she doesn't hide anything because there's nothing to hide. Greg's heart fills with a surge of pure love for the rational way she approaches their history together. He knows she feels emotions deeply, but aside from the occasional eruption of temper, she doesn't allow them to rule her—and yet she always manages to show her love for him without reserve, even when he hurts her. It's a level of mastery he can only admire with everything in him.
"Well . . . that must be why I want my hands on you," she says. A sly smile lifts the corners of her lips as she picks up some deep-fried mozzarella, and takes a bite. When she offers him the other half he leans over and nibbles at it, letting his tongue touch her fingers, enjoys the little flare of arousal in her eyes when he does it.
When the pizza comes out it's perfect, hot and crispy around the edges, with a chewy crust that's perfect for dipping in the marinara sauce. They do it full justice, though Roz manages about one slice to his four. She's never been a big eater; she takes her time, savors the blend of savory and spicy. Still, at one point she steals a meatball off his slice and pops it in her mouth, her eyes full of knowing humor.
"Promise to do that to me when we get home?" Greg says, and she licks her fingers. It's a provocative gesture that makes him realize his jeans are a little too tight, and not just because he's stuffed with good food.
Once they're done with the main course and had the leftovers boxed up to take home, they sit back with shots of espresso and a silver dish of homemade chocolates—a surprise from Sarah.
"Tonight's special," she says. She looks a little tired now, and the quiet sorrow she keeps so carefully hidden most of the time now is more evident. Still, her smile is genuine. "Jason made the chocolates. He's got a good side vocation, if he ever decides to take it up."
Greg picks up a truffle and regards it with suspicion. "No guts no glory," Roz says, plucks it from his fingers and eats it as Sarah laughs.
"If he knows you're eating them too then he didn't poison them," he says, and takes another truffle. Sarah snorts in amusement.
"He made several batches yesterday and I'm the one dividing them up to serve. I doubt he'd want to do in every customer who comes in tonight. Anyway, he won't kill you off now, you know. It's too soon. He'll wait till he's in residency."
Greg gives her an offended glare, while Roz snickers. He swings the glare to her. "Anything to say?" he asks. She shakes her head, downs her espresso in one shot like the true Italian girl she is, and holds outs her demitasse to Sarah.
"More, please? I have to put up with him for the rest of the evening." But she smiles when she says it—she doesn't mean it. A warm feeling fills up Greg's chest, and it's not due to the caffeine in the espresso.
As they sit there engaged in a desultory conversation, Mandy and Anne Faust come in. It's clear very quickly they are expected; Sarah escorts them to a booth at the back near the kitchen door. They are seated with decorum, coats taken. Sarah goes into the back, and a few moments later Jason comes out. He holds a red envelope; when he presents it to Mandy his face is almost the same color as the paper. She accepts it from him, opens it, reads the card. Her smile is beautiful. She reaches out, touches his hand as she says something quietly, and he nods, his expression one of mingled relief and anxiety. Anne watches them with a smile. Jason takes their order. As he turns to go into the kitchen he glances at Greg. There is a defiant edge to that look, along with a new and uncertain pride. Then he's gone as he moves through the swing door into the busy kitchen.
"They're good for each other," Roz says softly.
"They don't have anyone else." Greg sits back, his gaze on her now.
"Mandy has a standing offer with one of the guys in her Creative Writing class." Roz picks up one of the chocolates, takes a nibble. "Jason might not know it, but both girls in Advanced Calc think he's a hottie."
"Good to know you're up on the latest high school gossip."
"I'm a tutor, I hear things." She flashes him a smile and eats the rest of the chocolate. "We'd better be on our way or we'll be late for the movie."
When they emerge into the night, it's to be met by a wild flurry of flakes. Everything's coated with a good inch of fresh snow. Roz looks around, then reaches out and turns up the collar of Greg's pea coat. "Oh well," she says, and laughs just a little. "Guess it's a night at home watching On Demand."
"I can think of other things we can do," he says. Yeah, it's predictable, but she'll like it anyway, and she does.
They arrive home eventually and get through the familiar ritual—they hang their winter gear over radiators and heat vents, while Hellboy winds around their feet and begs for a second supper. Once he's been fed he leads the way into the living room. When Roz follows him she discovers a red heart-shaped helium balloon tethered to a pair of small presents on the coffee table. Greg sits on the couch as she opens the paper to reveal a DVD and a CD, both A Hard Day's Night, remastered and restored copies. He knows her love of Eighties and girl-group music is surpassed only by her enjoyment of early Beatles. The look on her face is worth the hassle he went through to get pristine editions. So is the kiss he receives as a thank you for his efforts.
Much to his surprise, she has a gift for him too. She goes into the bedroom and returns with a small box. She offers it to him. He takes it with some hesitation; his anxiety levels are already elevated. He's always hated to open gifts in front of the giver; invariably he says something, does something, to ruin everything. As he holds the little box, Roz's hands come up to cover his.
"Amante," she says, "if you don't like it, I won't hate you. I'll just give you a hard time and make you feel guilty as hell."
He has to snort at that, but now it's easier to open his present. When he does so he finds the box contains a tumbled piece of amethyst—her favorite semi-precious stone, she has bits of it tucked here and there all over the house. This piece is flat and round, about the same size and shape as a peppermint candy. On one side is inscribed a simple compass rose. On the other side is the word 'imagine'.
"Just a reminder that you have options," she says, "especially with me." When she offers him her beautiful smile, he can't help but accept that too.
So they spend the rest of the evening on the couch and watch the movie, something his wife thoroughly enjoys; she even sings along with the songs in that soft little untuneful voice of hers, a sign of great trust, he knows. And then when the movie ends, when the shadows are deep and the house is quiet, they go into their bedroom and undress each other slowly, take their time, explore each other even as they shiver and sigh, ready for the protective layers of their bed. As they climb in Greg finds the sheets are warm—Roz turned on the heated mattress cover some time before, probably when they first came home. It feels glorious to slide into delicious comfort, to find Roz's slender, yielding body next to his, warmer than even the bedclothes around them.
It is both a delight and a wonder to explore her, to use his tongue and fingers, his own body, rough and uncouth as it is, to give her pleasure, to make her sigh and cry out when he enters her, slow and sweet. It's something they've done many times now, but it never grows old or boring; every time is new, delicious, amazing.
They lie in each other's arms afterward. Roz tucks her cheek against his shoulder and lets go a long, soft sigh, her breath warm on his skin. A few moments later she's in the first stage of sleep, as her body relaxes slowly. Greg brings the covers up and holds her a bit closer. When sleep comes for him too he doesn't resist.
He sits by the window and watches the rain fall. It is early evening. The soft pearly light leaches away, drop by drop. There is some comfort in knowing the processes of life continue apace. There is terror in that knowledge too.
"Still here," Amber says. She smirks at him, her eyes glinting and green as a cat's. "So predictable, like all the other drops of sea-water walking around."
He stares at her. And then he says "No."
Amber's brows rise. "No?" she says sweetly. "No what?"
He gestures at the room around him, feels the raging phantom ache in his thigh—the pain he still remembers all too well. "No to this. I don't belong here."
Amber leans forward. "You'll always belong here," she says with confidence. "Deny it all you like—"
"No," he says again, and finds to his surprise he means it—it's not just mindless defiance, it's the truth. "No, I don't."
Amber regards him for a long moment. She crosses one leg over the other. "Interesting," she says. "Continue."
"There's nothing more to say," he snaps. "To quote someone else you used to know, 'I've moved on'."
"And I say you haven't."
"And I say you're full of shit. I just told you the truth. Either come up with a good reason for my being here or leave me the fuck alone!"
Amber sits up a little. She tilts her head to one side, studies him for a few moments. Then she offers him a slight smile. "Toodle-oo," she says.
"Mmmm . . . amante, what is it?" Roz moves back a bit, her hand on his chest. "Are you all right?"
He comes to himself there, with his woman in his arms and the cat asleep at his feet, the quiet darkness around them. His dream-self was right—he doesn't belong in that place of terror and pain any longer. This is where he belongs; this is what he needs. And even better, it's what his wife needs too.
My shrink will want to know about this but I'll make her work for it first, he thinks. A smile lifts the corners of his mouth. "Just a dream," he says out loud, and brings Roz a little closer. Just before sleep claims him once more he catches a glimpse of snow outside the window, as it falls soft and slow.