“Sure, hon. Have a glass of water while you’re back there.”
“But,” Fabio interjected. “I thought we would be seated together.”
“Later,” said George. “After dinner. I have to work now.”
Fabio beganto protest, then closed his mouth, resigned. He turned, allowing May to take him to a table.
George stood, holding the adjoining barstool for support. Wobbly, he went into the kitchen. Zac was there. He looked up from plating salads.
“Are you OK?” he asked.
“Great. There’s a reviewer here... fromThe Post.”
“Oh. Well, that’s some news.”
“Yeah,” said George. “Jack and May made me drink some ouzo.”
“Yikes.” Zac’s eyes went wide. “That’s the real deal, George—imported. Much higher octane than the American stuff.”
“I know,” George said proudly, punctuated with a hiccup. “I can feel it.”
The door jingled from out front.
George threw his hands up. “And they just keep on coming.”
“Let me get you some water.”
Zac found a paper cup and made for the sink.
“George,” came a familiar accent from behind them. It was Mikey, peeking his head in the kitchen.
“Mikey!” George said, loudly. He turned with a little bow. “Welcome. Welcome to David’s.”
Mikey entered with roses. “I wanted to congratulate you on the opening.”
George went to him, embracing him in an overzealous bear hug, smashing the bouquet between them. He lost his balance, falling backward. Mikey reached, dropping the flowers and George caught his hands, pulling him with him. They both went crashing into the kitchen island.
“Whoopsie-daisy!” said Mikey, chuckling. He bent down, retrieving the rose bundle, placing it on the island’s silver surface. George pulled him close.
“Mikey, my sweet, Italian brother. Thank you for the beautiful flowers. You’re such a gentleman.”
“It’s the least I could do, George. I just want you to know I’m here for you.”
George kissed him, their lips colliding sloppily. Mikey tried to withdraw and George squeezed him tighter, his hands moving up and cupping the back of his head, smashing their faces together, relishing the friction of his beard, the plush velvet of his sweet lips. Mikey caved into George’s embrace, pressing, pinning him up against the stainless steel counter. His tongue came out to play and George welcomed it with a chuckle.
When they separated, it was Mikey who looked drunk.
“Whoa,” he said. “Wasn’t expecting that. You taste like candy, George.”
“It’s the ouzo,” Zac said, returning with the cup of water. He handed it to George. “He’s nervous. May gave him a shot of ouzo.”
“Two,” George said, holding up matching fingers. “Big ones.”
“Opa!” Mikey said with a grin.
“Opa! Did I tell you that I have a low tolerance for alcohol, Zac?”
“No, but I can see that.” He returned to the salads.
