Page 3 of Lovebug
“Would you give us a minute, baby doll?” Bert cuts off my question with one of his own. Full-voiced this time.
I look at him.
He looks at me.
Oh. Looks like I’m being dismissed.
“Uh, sure. Yeah. While you two decide which ‘thing’ is happening first, I need to visit the ladies’ room anyway. So… be right back.”
“Thanks, sweetness.” Bert takes my hand and gives my knuckles a quick kiss, then immediately huddles back together with his mother, already deep in private discussion.
I make my way toward the ladies’ room. As I turn the corner, I hear…
“Psst. Bella!” Clearly, my name isn’t Bella, so I continue along my merry way. Though truth be told, I’m starting to feel a little less merry than when I arrived here tonight. You’d think after all this time together, I’d know Bert on a deep level, and he’d know me. But sometimes, he feels like such a mystery to me. Maybe that’s my fault. Maybe I’m not giving as much of myself as I could, and that’s why—
“Psst. Bella!” I hear the voice again.
I turn to see our waiter standing right outside the swinging doors of the kitchen with a large tray perched on his shoulder piled with plates of steaming hot food. I take a quick glance behind me, but it seems I am the only one within psst-ing distance. Best to double-check, though. “Hi. Are you psst-ing and bella-ing me?”
He chuckles. “I am, yes.”
“Alright, well then ‘psst’ back atcha, sir!”
He laughs again. This is common in my world. People always seem to laugh when I’m being completely serious.
“Do you always stand outside ladies’ rooms, blocking the thoroughfare in busy restaurants?” he asks.
It’s then I realize that I am completely frozen against the wall between a painting of a bowl of spaghetti and a portrait of a dog. How long have I been standing here?
“Oh gosh, I’m sorry. I’m in your way. Please, please.” I step to the side and start mobilizing toward the bathroom again.
“You were lost in thought,” he says, stopping me.
“I guess, yeah.” I laugh it off as nothing serious. Because it’s not.
He gives me a knowing look, then says, “Well. I’m about to deliver themin-es-tron-esoup to your table, and I do hope you will enjoy your lasagna with extrari-cot-tawhen it arrives.”
“Thank you. You’re very nice. Wait! You said all the syllables!”
“I did. As do all true Italians. Those people you are dining with this evening?” He says this with a bit of a sneer.
“My boyfriend and his mother?”
He leans closer to me and says in a low voice, “Yes. Don’t let them boss you around like that. They are what we call… how do you say? … idiotas.”
“Oh, no! No, they’re not. I think pronouncing Italian foods like the Italians do—or how theythinkthe Italians do—makes them feel close to their mother country. I don’t mind.”
I don’t mention the fact that the past five generations of the Bozzelli family have been born and raised in suburban Philadelphia or that Bert has never actually even been to Italy—or even out of the country, for that matter.
“Fair enough. Also…” His voice shifts into horror-movie mode. “Beware of the biscotti.”
Without another word, he takes off toward the main dining area.
“What did you say?” I call after him.
As he turns the corner, I hear his voice trailing off. “Beware of the biscotti…”
Huh. What an odd guy. I finally push through the door of the ladies’ room and am shocked to see my best friend coming out of a stall.
