Tomato Juice

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As a small tradition, the two lovers always made sure that they were home on time from work to enjoy a nice home-cooked meal together. And since it was the third Saturday of that month, Antonio had the shift of whipping something up. The ritual the two of them shared was sacred, Antonio adored cooking for his beloved little Italian whenever he had the chance. However, ever since Lovino had gotten a job at his Grandfather's Italian bistro downtown, it was difficult for the two of them to just sit down and enjoy dinner together. The strain on their relationship became apparent when all they did was work, so they made the pact: on Saturday nights at six o'clock, come home and either prepare the meal or set the table. The tradition had gone on for nearly a month now, and the Spaniard and Italian's relationship had been better than ever.

But it was seven-forty-five, Antonio was already finishing up his signature Paella by chopping up some ripe tomatoes from the garden (all while wearing his favorite pink apron), and Lovino still hadn't come home from work.

The Spaniard looked at the time, a grimace gracing his tanned face. Ay, of all the days to be late. He sighed dejectedly, slicing the plump red fruit into perfect slivers and decorating the dish. He tried to busy himself by taking up Lovino's job and setting the table with poor attempts to keep his eyes away from the clock. Antonio lined the mahogany dining table with an array of savory dishes, from the steaming seafood Paella, to garden salad, and to the mouth watering Tres Leches and Coconut Kisses. Small tea-light candles adorned the table as well, giving the dark room a warm and evanescent glow. Antonio stepped back and looked at his handy work, then subconsciously at the clock. Eight-fifteen.

Heart sinking, Antonio took a seat at the table, fishing his phone from the fanny pocket of his apron and dialing the Italian. It didn't even ring, just went straight to voice-mail, "Yo,this is-a Lovino. If you are-a that French or Potato bastardo, fuck off. If are-a that Spanish bastadro then-a leave a fucking messa-"

Antonio hit the End button, his heart sinking further. Did he turn his phone off? Or did it just die? He always forgets to charge it so maybe that's it...

His disappointment rang loud in the silence of the house, reverberating against the walls and back into the Spaniard's heart. This was so unusual of his boyfriend, he was the one that proposed they have dinner together every Saturday night. And yet he wasn't there to keep his promise.

Chin in hand, Antonio sighed again, reaching for a tomato sitting in a small wicker basket and rolling the pulpy fruit in his calloused hands. He knew he would wait, and when Lovino came home he wouldn't be mad either. So he waited, playing occasionally on his phone or picking at pieces of the Paella when he was unable to ignore his hunger. He eventually got so hungry that he bit into a tomato as if it were an apple, too dejected to wipe the juice off his chin. Time and time passed, the hands on the clock making their way along the right side of the face. The Paella had gone cold and the Coconut Kisses had deflated and lost their luster. And with the gradual advance of time, Antonio fell asleep with his head in his arm, his hand still clutching the half-eaten tomato.

SLAM!

Antonio was startled awake by a noise that sounded like the front door. He looked up from his drool-soaked arm, his eyes bleary from sleep. Blinking a few times, he could make out the figure of his boyfriend stumbling through the door, swearing aloud in slurred Italian. Both excited and concerned, Antonio jumped from his seat at the table and rushed to his lover.

"Amor, where have you-"

"Fuck! My-a head hurts, don't talk so damn loud!" Lovino wobbled away from the latter, bumping his ass against the front door. The smell of alcohol was thick on his breath and burned Antonio's nostrils.