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Thursday, March 21, 17:00

Through the speakers, the lasts chords of Blue Skies .

Robert Salvatore waits for the song to end. It's his way to pluck up/of mustering courage. Delaying the mission for a few minutes. He chose that song in his way to her apartment, a touch of class. It's been a while since last time he was in that building.

Arguing, for a change.

The song ends.

Maybe a glass of wine would be nice?

Grabs the bottle of Argentinian Syrah. Her favorite. Still cold.

She forbids freezing the wine. "It might break the balance." Overstated. That's okay, she taught him how to taste and enjoy wine, as well as to distinguish grapes.

Then Salvatore realizes it's already in the next track and turns off the sound. Checks the plastic shopping bag. Arboreal rice, Colavita olive oil, Tuscan Pecorino, artichoke heart and fresh holy basil.

Oh, the fucking holy basil.

Couldn't be something less mandatory? Parsley, or even thyme. Impossible. "It must be holy basil."

Yep. She also helped to improve Salvatore's culinary experience. Before they were together, and it's been a while, there was countless stories about trips to one of the college's filthy burger carts, Melecão da Unb . It's not like he missed that time.

This is not time for squabbling, specially a culinary squabble. He had a vivid memory of their last dinner. The downfall started with an attempted to match tapioca tortilla, scallions and toasted cassava flour with beef stroganoff. Queen of Hyperbole plead that the Russian would barge into the flat if they knew about that cuisine fusion.

They don't know what a tapioca tortilla toasted cassava flour is. Aviação butter.

Salvatore eyes wide open, remembering the butter. Scavenge the bag in vain. And that's the kind of missing item in her fridge.

He hold up the phone, it's five already. Too risky going back to the grocery store. Academic advising meetings on Thursdays, she could be home earlier.

Maybe there's margarine. He get a glimpse of an overlooking margarine tub, hiding in the shelf, since before last Carnival. It would be a good idea check on the expiration date, even before barge into the flat.

Calling her? Out of question. First, it would spoil the surprise. And besides, might not work out breaking their long silence with small talk like "hi, how are you? You know if that margarine still good? Why didn't I call you sooner? Listen, just answer the question."

Salvatore isn't sure about what kind of talk they'll have. In fact, he didn't give much thought to what that surprise would lead to, hopefully her bed, by far the best option.

The point was the meaning of his gesture. A bridge, a return. He knows he screw up. He's willing to give her that (not that much) to move forward.

But reality knocks hard on Salvatore's face. There's no chance of moving forward without having The Talk. Not after he screwed up. Big time. He fucked up. She didn't deserved it. Definitely, maybe, she would quit him. He asked for it. Even so, she would have to look him in the eye.

Salvatore has never been "fired" from a relationship. He dislikes the feeling. And thinking about it, they can work things out. Reconcile. Put the record straight, even if they have to go through any whining. Even if ends up with at weepapalooza.

Just focus. Chill the wine. Make the risotto. Ignore the basil. And the margarine? Is it spoiled?

Salvatore decided, unlike relationships, margarine doesn't spoil.