Noah: Or grief… What's the topic tonight?
Me: The fennel plants look good.
Noah: I’m glad. They’ve got good soil over there.
Me: Also, I burned the leftover lasagna when I was reheating it. (But I ate it anyway.)
Noah: Says a lot about your character. Can’t waste food. I admire that in a person.
Me: I keep picturing my grandmother shaking her hand at me, telling me about starving children in Africa. It was crispy in a very intentionalway.
Noah: Crispy is the new al dente. It’s rustic. Any grief updates?
Me: Nope. I’m thriving.
Noah: Didn’t I see you rush inside in your bathrobe the other day on my route?
Me: A midday bathrobe is not a mark of sadness. I’m living my best widow life. I’m even thinking of going to this block party next weekend. Sharon invited me. Although in the name of honesty, it was a very sad-sounding invitation. Like she was worried I’d forgotten how to leave my house.
Noah: Are you asking me to go with you?
Me: I’m thinking of thinking about maybe asking you.
Noah: That’s very decisive of you.
Me: I didn’t want to sound weird. Or make it weird.
Noah: You opened with “salutations.”
Me: Touché.
Noah: I’d go. Just say the word.
Me: Okay. Maybe. Maybe you’ll see me (not in my bathrobe) on your route tomorrow.
Noah: It’s a date… Well, not a date. Simply one mailman talking about pasta and plants with a widowed bathrobe wearer. (Very normal.)
Me: Extremely normal.
GROUP CHAT: The Dead Husband’s Society
Me: Hey! Quick check-in. How are we feeling about our grief dares this week?
Viv: Wow. Straight to business. No “hey queens” or “what’s up”? Cold, Birdie.
Marin: She’s deflecting. Did you chicken out?
Me: Absolutely not. I’m a woman of courage. I texted him.
Viv: Did you ask him?
Me: I technically sent some words into the void. Not sure what category that falls into.
Viv: Category: cowardly.
Me: I said something about lasagna and flowers and chaos. Which, in some cultures, is the same as asking someone out.
Marin: What cultures have you been studying? Clearly not this one.
