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Pizza Box

Dining al fresco with M.B. and G. at Via Vite. A sunny evening on the upstairs patio over-looking Fountain Square. The pretty, young waitress does not know the wine. I’m partial to the Orvieto, the wine from the walled city on the bluff where M. and I spent an afternoon of bliss, but our dark server girl, looking as Italian as she is supposed to, seeks counsel. We’re led to another wine choice. Fine. Italian whites are undistinguished.

It doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t matter.

Caprese to start. Our cute waitress is chatty. She’s an Indians fan, as am I. One of Grady’s Ladies, I presume. She brings a pizza margharita and one with pesto and artichokes. Latin music and line dancing on the Square. Latin line dancing? Caressed by a soft breeze and the music and the conversation of good friends. If it was like this all of the time…

I wouldn’t mind. I really wouldn’t mind.

C. is coming Wednesday to join G. for a few days. A marriage on the rocks.  She wants to build a geodesic domed greenhouse on their rental property though she will, just as quickly, be gone. G. can manage the rental and grow winter vegetables. M.B. and I challenge the wisdom of a lingering connection. G. knows what he has to do, he says. I should have declared “pizza box” time for M.B. and I. “Pizza box” is code for rule #3. Rule # 2 is “shut the fuck up”. Rule # 3 is “it’s never too early to shut the fuck up.” How dare we?

Pain is private. The pain of love is always private.

M. and I visited Christian Pietosa’s (Via Vite’s owner) Florence restaurant a decade ago. The real Florence. The Italian one. The one without the strip malls. A long cab ride from Centro Firenza. Christian wasn’t there though Nick had told him we were coming but probably not on that day. We had fish fondue. A weird dish. In the night with a soft summer breeze. And nothing much to talk about but…

It didn’t matter. It really didn’t matter.

C. is a Romanian born engineer. I haven’t met her and probably won’t. She’ll be protected from the wild card in the deck. The loose cannon. The angry one (M. could confirm that). Though I’m a paragon of civility when the occasion calls for it. Matters of love and loss are important occasions.  I’ll tell C. what a great guy G. is, given the opportunity. But either way…

I won’t mind and it really won’t matter.

M.B. is no longer with M. Nor J. with K. Nor B. with whatever her name is. M. and I have parted. What is wrong with this little group of misfits? A group that feels things more deeply than other groups to which I am attached. Clean breaks and fractures hurt equally, I’ve learned. The only thing that matters is the length of the hurt, the time required to heal. We’ll move on to Arnold’s for more medicine. We’ll talk more. But not about the other. Whose-ever other it might be. 

I wish we could all say aloud that we don’t mind. That it doesn’t really matter. But the pain of love is always private.

If you, if you could return
Don’t let it burn, don’t let it fade
I’m sure I’m not being rude
But it’s just your attitude
It’s tearing me apart…

Do you have to, do you have to
Do you have to let it linger

…You know I’m such a fool for you
You got me wrapped around your finger
Do you have to let it linger

                            The Cranberries

Categories: From Swerve to Bend
  1. G
    June 28, 2010 at 1:31 pm

    Very nice. There is Rule #1 which mostly applies to roadies. Rule #1: Take one bag and don’t bring a guitar.

  2. June 28, 2010 at 1:41 pm

    I’ll adapt Rule #1 to my own circumstances. “Take one bag and don’t carry a grudge.”

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