To begin with an apology is to give everything away. Roberto taught me that as he was cutting fine shards of parma ham to place on the tray. He tells me Parma ham has made it's way from Italy to the tray in a swift 48 hours. We are all sickly on foods that will eventually kill us. Roberto liked to cook and dish out wisdom with his food. Long pieces of spaghetti and moral tales. He was drinking wine from the bottle, puckering the mouth at each swig. It's quite often that I hate him.
He knows that I have a passion for whole, ripe and expensive tomatoes which is why there is a brown paper bag by the sink abndant with them, and each ready for skinning. He turns his attention to it every so often and I feel so full when he does this, I think of leaving. But tonight, Roberto will boil the water and place them in one by one, burning his fingers lightly. I used to watch him complete this ritual eyes all loving, drinking Rioja and not feeling entirely whole. I walk out of the kitchen and into a living room coated with dust. I have not tidied the house for two weeks because I am stalked by tiredness, a lethargy which calls the moment I reach home. I have started to buy take out dinners, listening to the ping of the microwave and noisy talk shows that declare life is awful for most. I have felt the bed move next door where Roberto talks in his sleep and I have got up to have a glass of milk, my cold feet slapping the tiles. I have not thought about doing anything silly, just how chalky my feeling have become.
This is not my life.
