Page 48 of Seven Summer Weekends

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“What are you making?” Kizzy asked, while futzing around with the knobs on what may have been the oldest working toaster oven in existence.

“Pizza bagels—they were in the freezer—I hope it’s OK.”

“God knows how old they are, but it’s fine.”

Kizzy twisted the timeworn dials and pressed buttons until the red oven light went on.

“Voilà!” she exclaimed, before standing there awkwardly, not knowing whether to leave or stay. She looked into Terrence’s red eyes, contemplated his choice of 2:00 a.m. snack, and came right out and asked.

“Are you stoned?”

“Maybe a little.”

He pulled a bright yellow vape out of his pocket. It had been years since Kizzy had smoked pot.

“Want a hit?”

“It’s been so long—years.”

“You know it’s legal now?”

“Yes, I heard that,” she laughed. “That’s not the reason. The last time I smoked, my husband made me crazy paranoid.” She remembered the awful night, fighting with Rome about his flirty behavior with a woman they bumped into at the Smith restaurant.

“It turned out that I wasn’t paranoid after all. My husband was having an affair. I only left him a week ago.”

“Oooh, I’m sorry. That stinks. But good that you can partake again—right?”

He handed her the vape.

“Why not?” she acquiesced.

A few hits later and she too was staring down the timer on the pizza bagels.

“What’s your husband’s name?”

“Rome.”

“Rome is an odd name.”

“Yes, and he took it literally,” she answered, laughing.

“Can I ask you a personal question, Kizzy?”

Kizzy nodded and held her breath.

“How long were you with your husband?”

“Seventeen years.”

“Wow. Was it always bad?”

“No, of course not. Before the last couple of years, I would have said it was always good.”

“How old were you when you met?”

“Fifteen.”

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