charlotte racioppo

     She’ll be hovering by the mustard and you’ll approach all casual, maybe searching for the exact kind of salad dressing that makes you feel like an adult, maybe not.
     “Love me some balsamic,” you’ll say, like an idiot.
     She’ll laugh at you. Because she should, because what?
     “What?” she’ll say, laughing.
     You won’t know what to say, how to undo your idiocy. It will not be the only time you do something idiotic for her, not even the only condiment-based crime, just the first.
     “I don’t know,” you’ll say. “I turned into somebody’s uncle for a second.”
     And she’ll nod because she, too, is an idiot, a beautiful idiot, “I know what you mean,” she’ll say. “Someone showed me a picture of their family the other day and I said, ‘What an attractive bunch!’”, and you will laugh so hard you snort.
     “I’m sorry,” you’ll say and she’ll shake her head.
     “No, I know, it aged me fifty years.”
     “Were they an attractive bunch?”
     “To someone,” she’ll say, and that’s when you’ll fall in love and say, “Can I make you dinner?” and she will somehow somehow somehow say yes.

                                 ***

     You do not know how to make a good dinner. Neither does she, but she won’t tell you for another two months and so you wipe vinaigrette on your phone screen and then off again, swiping through a recipe mostly dedicated to the description of the author’s cat who, when napping, slightly resembles the pot roast currently defeating you in head-to-head combat.
     You don’t win but you even the score by dinnertime maybe, and encourage her to smother the thing in sauce if it’d help. And she’ll smile all attractive with arugula between her teeth, she’ll say, “Love me some balsamic!”

                                 ***

     You’ll be hovering by the tartar sauce and she’ll be dishing you up the least edible fish and chips you’ve ever seen in your life, not that you’ve seen many fish and chips but my god none this bad, she’ll sink into the chair across from you head-in-hands and say something like, “My god, this is the worst thing man has ever created.” You will smother the thing in sauce as if it helps.
     “Looks great,” you’ll lie. 
     “Liar,” she’ll say, laughing, jabbing her sad fish, slipping some to the cat.
     “What an attractive bunch!” you’ll say and it’ll catch you and you’ll start laughing too, “What an attractive bunch!” she’ll say too. You’ll get tears in your eyes that fall onto the fish and give it a little salt, you’ll order pizza.

                                 ***

     “What an attractive bunch!” you’ll say as she shows you the picture of the grandkids, you’ll lift your feet to let the cat wander by and assume the shape of a pot roast on the carpet. You’ll hear her walk to the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets, removing expired bottles from the fridge, hovering near the mustard. And she’ll shrug and she’ll look at you beautiful. She’ll say, “Are you hungry?”