Boboli

“I think Ronnie is going to kill himself,” said Tom as he grabbed Olivia’s plate.

“He’s all pissed off he got the job.”

“If he didn’t want it, why’d he interview,” asked Olivia, brushing some crumbs off her cashmere sweater.

“What do you mean,” asked Tom. “What’s he supposed to do, turn down Mal’s dad?”

Olivia collected her thoughts and checked her eye roll impulse. Then she said, “Yes.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Tom brought the rest of the dishes over to the sink in silence. Olivia sipped a glass of Columbia Crest Merlot and looked out the window. From the second story you could see a number of dumpsters and the car park’s sloped, tin roof.

“Did you like the pizza?” asked Tom. “Goat cheese. Ronnie told me about it.”

“It was fine.”

Tom wiped the crumbs off the table cloth. He had one of those waiter’s scrapers he stole from the Olive Garden when he was 19.

“Want some more wine?” Tom asked, rolling the sleeves of his denim shirt up.

“No. I’m good.” Olivia looked at Tom, and despite a sincere effort, her eyes welled.

“Did the pizza suck? I’m sorry babe. I thought you liked Boboli.”

Olivia didn’t answer. Her eyes continued to fill as she thought about whether or not to say it.

“I can go get you something else,” tried Tom.

Olivia stopped thinking.

“Fuck the pizza, Tom.” One tear dropped. Then she stopped herself.

“What’s wrong?”

Olivia, pushed her dark brown bangs out of her face. “I can’t do this.”

Tom stopped scrubbing the pizza stone he wasn’t supposed to wash. He dried his hands, walked over to Olivia and pushed his own brown hair out of his face.

“What’s wrong.”

“We’ve talked about it, Tom.”

“Like, a week ago. Am I just supposed to change like that?”

“I don’t want you to change, Tom.”

“Umm, yeah you do.”

“No, I don’t,” she said calmly.

Tom was thinking about what he wanted to say. He went with: “I don’t understand you at all.” Although he would later swear he hadn’t, he kind of yelled it.

The foam on his forearms made him look a bit ridiculous.

“No you don’t,” said Olivia.

Tom looked incredulous. “What are we doing here, talking in codes? Should I get a Navajo or something?”

“Don’t be an asshole. You’re not an asshole, so don’t be one.”

“Then what do you mean?” asked Tom, drawing out the word mean.

“I don’t want you to change. I don’t expect you to. But Tom, I’m out.”

Tom looked like how you might expect a cow looks right after it’s been hit in the head with the air gun. Olivia stood up, not quite knowing what to do.

“What?” asked Tom.

“I’m tired, Tom. This isn’t fun. This is kind of sad.”

“We love each other.”

“Do we?”

“What the fuck, Olivia?” He was about to cry, so he turned away from her. “Are you serious?”

Olivia stared at Tom staring at the wall. “Yes. I’m serious, Tom. I’m out.”

She walked over to the front door, grabbed her car keys and left.

Tom could see her as she walked to her car, the condensation on the window from the hot dish water blurring her image. As she got into the turquoise Mini-Cooper they called Franny, Tom crumpled to his knees and began to sob uncontrollably. He began to cry like he did when he was just a little boy and the monster in the closet was after him. He cried, and Olivia did, too. But she kept driving, and Tom couldn’t move.