Dear Wigleaf,

The guys in the kitchen at the Italian restaurant across the street are washing dishes. They aren't happy. The best dish is a hamburger, served wrapped in wax paper. When you're done, congealed grease and cheese are pooled at the bottom of the wax paper. You're forced to confront what you just ingested. It's awkward.
 
Recently, at the grocery store, the guy behind the deli counter recognized me. "Don't ever eat at Gino's," he told me. "I used to work there. Cheap bastards. They make their spaghetti sauce with ketchup." He gave me a half-pound of mesquite turkey and his phone number. I didn't know how to interpret that. I entered his number into my phone but never called.

If you gave me your number, I would call. I would call with such frequency that people would start talking about us because they would be jealous because they know I have long legs and they know what that means.

My porch is covered with green fabric, littered with tiny burn holes and a rather large burnt crater from the plastic Folger's coffee can my landlady gave me to use as an ashtray, only it was plastic and cigarettes are generally lit so the plastic melted then adhered to the porch. That's mostly why I quit smoking. I still stand out there, though, to watch what's going on in Gino's kitchen and confirm the improper use of ketchup.

Send me your number.

Roxane






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Read RG's story, "How It Is."

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