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Wanna elaborate?
I can just imagine her intuitive mind mulling over what I mean by that comment. But she surely knows she’ll never win this mind play with me.
You can’t handle the truth!I text back, using the classic Jack Nicholson line.
But suddenly, I realize she’s probably too young to know that movie, and I quickly tap out a text, not wanting her to think I’m being rude or aggressive or just plain weird.
But before I have a chance to reply, my phone chimes.
Ooh, I love that movie. Jack Nicholson is a total hottie.
I read the message three times over, and my dick begins to stir due to the fact she finds someone twice my age “hot.” Maybe she likes older men? My dancing libido pipes up in interest, but I swiftly shut it down before I start getting stupid orstupiderideas.
Deciding to steer this conversation in a totally different direction, I reply.
What’s your favorite movie?
I know it’s completely lame, but I find myself wanting to actually know what her favorite movie is. I also want to know what Madison’s favorite everything is.
E.T. Yours?
Wow, she knows who Jack NicholsonandE.T. are. And just like that, my lame joke wasn’t so lame after all.
Three hours and a bottle of scotch later, I found out what Madison’s favoriteeverythingwas.
We texted until the early hours of the morning, and not once did I feel bored or want the conversation to end. I wanted to know everything there was to know about her, and by her probing questions, I dare say she felt the same way about me.
She steered clear of the topic of my father when I made it more than obvious he was a matter I was uncomfortable discussing. But there were elements to Madison’s past and present (like David the dickhead) that I sensed were also off-limits, and I respected her, just as she did me.
But everything else was open for discussion, and I don’t think I’ve ever known this much about one human being.
Not even Lily.
If I had any doubts as to what I have to do in regard to Juliet and our “situation,” tonight cleared up any reservations, as I don’t think I’ve had a conversation with her that’s lasted longer than five minutes. I know all the bare essentials that separate us from being total strangers who fuck, but I don’t really know her, unlike I now know Madison.
But I don’t know how orwhatto tell her. If I end things, it’s not like I can pursue Madison because she’s seeing Gigantor. Therefore, I’ll have to seek out the company of another lady friend, but mindless, faceless fucking has suddenly lost its appeal. I have Juliet, who is more than capable of satisfying all my needs, but can she? After yesterday, has our passion finally burned out? Did our “thing” come with an expiration date all along? I guess there’s only one way to find out.
I’ve hit the gym, gone for a run, and it’s only nine o’clock on Sunday morning. There’s something I’ve been putting off, but today is the first day since I buried my mother that I’ve had the balls to pay her a visit.
I park my blue BMW and, taking a deep breath, I look at the gates of the Hillcrest Cemetery. I haven’t been back home since the day I admitted my father. Taking yet another deep breath, I look at my pale reflection in the rearview mirror and tell myself to man up.
I walk through the manicured gardens, and the early June weather is bringing out some pretty flowers and plants. But no matter how visually appealing the foliage is, they can’t hide the fact there are headstones as far as the eye can see. I can’t helpbut feel a sense of sadness for all these souls that were once alive. Each gravestone represents a person’s life, and their life story is chipped away on stone for the world to see what a great person they once were.
I can’t help but wonder what my life story will entail. But more importantly,whowill be the author behind my tale?
Shaking those thoughts aside, I give a polite smile to a woman dressed in black who is clearly mourning her loved one. This place is filled with sadness, but it’s also a place for reflection. The living need to weep for the dead, and this is where one can do so.
When I reach my mother’s grave, I stop a few feet away, my aviators shielding my approaching tears. I can’t step any closer, so this is close enough for now. Dropping to a squat, I stare at the marbled headstone and remember the care taken when I chose it. It had to be perfect for her because she was perfect in life, and I wanted to ensure that followed her into death.
“Ciao, Mamma,” I say, addressing her as I would if she were alive.
My parents both migrated to the USA in their teens from a small fishing village in Sicily, Italy. When they were barely adults, they met at a factory and married a year later. Two years later, I was born.
My parents didn’t have much when they came to America, but they made it work. They worked hard and blended in as best they could, as they didn’t speak a lick of English the day they arrived. If the current generation of kids had to rough it like my parents did, they wouldn’t survive half a day without their iPads and cell phones.
In a way, back then, things were simpler. You married young, had kids, and provided for your family the best you could. It was hard labor, but family was number one, so you did anything for your loved ones.
If it wasn’t for my father and mother working their asses off, I wouldn’t be in the position I’m in today. I thank them every day for the sacrifices they made for me.
