“Don’t need to. They’ve started Tae Kwon Do. One’s a bloody blue belt.” Shouting sounds in his background. “Dammit, they may be killing one another. I should go.”
“Got it. And thanks. We’ll talk soon.” After I hang up, I Google ED and COVID but find nothing conclusive.
What if I can never get it up again? Sam is a healthy, young, woman. She deserves a life full of hot sex and eventually, a house filled with kids.
I clunk my head on my knees.Jesus? What the hell? It’s not bad enough you mess up my eye and kill my brothers. Now, you give me the plague and fuck with my dick? I could use a little help, here, man.
My conscience digs at me as I consider all the folks who died and the thousands waiting to be buried.I don’t want to seem ungrateful here, Lord, but I just got married. Hell, I did the right thing, didn’t I? Once I knew she was the one, I got her into the church and straight down the aisle.
If God has something to say, he ain’t revealing it to me.
Done feeling sorry for myself, I trudge down the stairs, rest, then run back up. Covered in sweat and shaking, I walk through the reception area and plop down in a chair.
Sitting at her laptop, my wife raises one eyebrow. In Sam-speak, it means,what up.
A mite uncomfortable, I hold up my cell phone. “I called Lucky.”
“Ah. And how is everyone in Boston?” Knowing Sam, she probably eavesdropped on my cock conversation but I’m not going there. No way, no how.
I clear my throat. “Listen, sugar. I’m sorry I got a bit irritated.”
She stands behind me and circles her arm around my shoulders and nibbles my ear. “I understand.”
Her computer dings, she looks at the time, then shoos me away from the table “Oh shit. Go away. I have a cooking lesson.”
This ought to prove interesting.Leaning against the fridge, I chuckle as Sam’s frowning mom pops up on her screen. “Bella, you don’t have to do this. You have so many other fine talents.”
“No, I got this, Mother. I’m a reasonably intelligent woman. People have been making pasta for centuries. Let’s do it.”
“First, find your pasta stone.” My mother-in-law sets her jaw as my determined spouse straightens out a plastic mat on the table.
“I don’t have a stone. This will have to do.” She waves at her grandmother. “Hi Nonna. Thanks for coming.”
The vinyl refuses to stay uncurled so I place our weapons on the corners and raise my brows as the old Italian woman looks on.
“Bene, un pò di farina.”
“Si, si, a little flour.” Translating, Sam measures using a soup spoon.
“No, no.” Mrs. Russo’s voice grows tighter and higher. “You want a pile… like making a volcano. Remember?”
On mute and off screen, my sweet wife kicks a table leg. “See? This is why I don’t cook.”
I point the cam at my face, away from the little Red Hen, and click on the mic. “Buongiorno Nonna, Buongiorno Momma.”
“Sebastian.” The two sweet women beam at my lousy Italian as my wife sticks out her tongue.
Chuckling, I turn the laptop again, this time facing the camera at a perfect hole in the center of a white mountain.
Her grandmother claps. “Buono. Un uovo.”
“An egg.” My gal cracks the shell and her mother hisses when a small piece falls in.
“Dammit.” Sam digs into the mound and retrieves it causing the liquid to bleed out the sides.
Quickly, I grab a fork, mute my in-laws, and whisk it all together while my wife moans.
“See why I can’t cook? One wrong move and I’m crucified.”
