At twenty-seven, YouTube sensation Ben Leonards is married to his work. If he's not whipping up lasagna with a side of science experiments, he's running statistical analysis of bitcoin during explosive behavior periods.
When a friend asks him to org...
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Linda's wrapped in a large white fluffy towel, rivulets of water running off her hair and down her shoulders, says something, but I can't compute what she wants. My mind is reeling from Tall's admission. How could he not be walking yet? It's the elemental premise I've explained to him time and time again. He knows how dangerous it is to remain in bed after a hip replacement. What is his doctor thinking? What is Tall thinking? He needed to move when this happened the first time, and it's crucial now that he's ten years older.
"Ben, my toiletries?" Linda's words enter my head.
"Toiletries?"
"Yes, my hair products, makeup, it's probably still in the suitcase. I assumed the maid unpacked them, but they're not here. Can you please check?"
"Yes." I head into the closet and take a moment to dial Angie, but she doesn't pick up.
"Hurry up, or we won't have time to walk over to the restaurant. Are you going to change too?"
I should. "Is there a dress code?"
"It's upscale. Wear something nice, definitely a jacket, slacks or nice dark jeans and maybe dress shoes instead of sneakers?"
My showering and dressing give Linda enough time to convert her straight hair into a cascade of artificial waves. Without Brenda by her side to compare to, Linda is pretty and glossy and attractive in a knee-length tunic that shows off her legs. I've always liked her legs. We traverse the living room, and the peculiar acoustics of the cavernous ceilings magnifies every sound of our steps. We descend the majestic staircase without encountering anyone. Food smells waft into the foyer, but the apartment is quiet, and there's no one to stop us from leaving.
***
Del Mio Senso, the restaurant Linda booked, isn't within a walking distance even by the New York standards. Linda turns the four-mile hour-and-a-half stroll into a sightseeing and photo opportunity starting with the hidden nooks of Central Park. She takes selfies with me by the Carnegie Hall, the Rockefeller Center, the Empire State Building, and vows to return to the Chelsea Market.
She was right to insist that I bring the dress shoes and not rely on my nice sneakers. Even though the blisters on my feet will takes days to heal, buying the black leather loafers was the right choice not only for the wedding but for this establishment. A hostess in a crisp white shirt with a back apron or vest, I don't quite understand, looped around her neck, leads us up my second grand staircase of the day and seats us at a table for two.
"Aren't we cute on this one?" She turns her phone my way and I see her smiling and my not smiling face with something green behind us. "I think this is the one to post. But the one in Madison Square Park is so good too. I'll post both." Linda isn't looking at the menu and is tangled in the webs of her social media accounts.
I scour the menu. I must try the Garganelli al Ragù Bolognese, pasta with pork, veal & tomato—one of the traditional Italian classics featured prominently on Am's grandma's menus.
