Page 1 of Lovebug
Chapter One
“I will have the min-es-tro-nee soup to start…”
“Minestron…” I hear my boyfriend correct under his breath.
“And for my entrée,” I continue as if I didn’t hear him say anything, “the lasagna with extra ricotta cheese, please.”
“An excellent choice, miss,” the waiter responds with a smile.
“Rigot. It’s pronounced rigot.” Bert coughs this bit into his elbow as the waiter reclaims our menus and steps away from the table with a funny look on his face.
I turn to Bert. “Are you okay, sweetie?” I ask. Maybe I heard him wrong. Perhaps he really is coming down with a cough. I like to give people the benefit of the doubt.
“Mabel baby, how long have we been together?” he asks.
“Six years, eight months, and thirteen days,” I say proudly.
“Aw, it’s so sweet how you count the days we’ve been together. Makes me feel loved.”
“Well, you are loved, Bert Alert.”
“Aw, your nicknames for me are the best. They make me feel appreciated.”
“You are appreciated.” I laugh and lean closer to him. “You’re my Bert Alert honeypie flirt, looking so darn cute tonight in that pink polo shirt.”
“Awwwww.” He drags this “aw” out an exorbitant amount and cups my cheek.
Something is up with him. Time to investigate.
“You’re saying ‘aw’ a lot tonight.” I cock my head. “Are you okay?”
“Awwwwwwwwwwwwww, I love how you notice all the little things about me. Makes me feel seen.”
“Sweetie,” I press further. “Are you giving a prepared speech?”
“Why would you ask that?” he asks.
“Because… it sounds like you’re giving a prepared speech.”
“I guess I just feel poetic when I’m around you,” he says with a weird smile I’m not used to seeing on his face.
“Since when?” I ask this without an ounce of sarcasm. I just truly can’t remember a time he’s expressed an interest in poetry. Or a time when he’s been this verbally affectionate with me. I like it. My guy is generally not the lovey-dovey sort, but oooh la la, tonight it seems he’s put his Romeo pants on.
“Since… I don’t know, Mabel!” he snaps.
If Romeo were a sweaty-palmed, perpetually irritated, twenty-four-year-old man who lives with his mother. I’m not judging. I too am a twenty-four-year-old living withhermother. Her father too, for that matter.
“I’m sorry I snapped, baby,” he says, recovering. “I’m just thinking… if we’ve been together for…” He smiles and pretends to search for the correct duration.
“Six years, eight months, and thirteen days,” I supply and smile back at him.
“Right,all that time… shouldn’t you be used to the Italian way of pronouncing things by now?”
Oh. I thought he would continue with saying sweet and affectionate things. But it seems I’m being reprimanded for not saying his ancestors’ food with the proper inflection and flair. Again.
I decide to be bold. “Bert. Are you sure it’s not the ItalianAmericanway of saying things, though?”
He takes in a sharp breath as though he’s prepared to argue his point.
