“Sure.” He bites his lower lip, then releases it.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.
“It’s something.”
“I am also better off not knowing about your life.”
“We don’t ask. We don’t tell. We can be like inmates.”
“Inmates?”
“Yeah. Don’t ask. Don’t tell.”
He frowns. “I’m afraid to ask how you know that.”
I laugh. “It’s a comedy show.”
“I see. Yeah, well, unfortunately, when I don’t know, I start speculating. I speculate that the guy with whom you’ve had such a passionate exchange is your husband. Or as you call him, ex-husband, even though you’re still married on paper. And I presume he lost something, and he’s really pissed about it. If he’s having money issues like you are and driving that kind of car and wearing the kinds of shoes he wore today, his money troubles are a hundred times the size of yours. We’re talking millions he stands to lose if this divorce turns on him. Am I right?”
“You’re right.”
“He looked dangerous,” the man says.
I rest the tongs on a plate beside the steak pan. “I married a dangerous man. It’s what I’m drawn to. Good guys don’t do it for me. Just ask Martin.”
“Who the fuck is Martin?”
“My friend. The police officer the store manager called when he saw Sergei and me arguing. Martin usually takes care of our disputes.”
“This happens often?”
“Only when I don’t answer my phone and Sergei needs to talk to me. He comes here all lit up and lays into me. I fight back because I don’t have to take his shit anymore. The neighbors all come outside to their terraces and balconies and watch us.” Yup. Everyone knows we’re divorcing. “I’m pretty loud,” I add.
The man’s eyebrows shoot up. “You?”
I nod. “Sergei is loud too, but I don’t have to fight back. Not on the street, at least.”
“No?”
“I can walk away.”
“You can?”
“Yeah, and I probably should. At least that’s what my dad tells me. My dad is afraid that one day, Sergei won’t be able tocontrol himself and that Dad will have two empty graves to visit at the cemetery because Sergei would hide my body.” I take the steak off the burner and the potatoes from the oven. With the food on the bar, I grab our plates and utensils. “I’d love to eat at a table, but I never found one that fits in this apartment.”
Since there are only two bar chairs and he’s using both, one to sit on and the other to elevate his foot, I move to the couch.
The man follows. He cuts his steak, looks at the blood in the middle, and says nothing. I don’t eat well-done steak, but I wanted to see if he’d comment or really eat whatever I put in front of him. He eats without comment.
I taste the potatoes. They’re not salty enough. He doesn’t mind. I do, but I’m too lazy to get up and grab the salt shaker.
We eat in silence mainly because he eats like he’s never had a meal before, and I don’t know what to talk about without oversharing about my life. Which I shouldn’t do.
“What kind of table are you looking for?” he asks.
“A round one. Natural wood. Two natural wooden chairs and a small bench.”
