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The dinner crowd is pretty good for a Tuesday. But Gisella’s offers some of the best pasta and antipasti in Santa Barbara. So I really shouldn’t be shocked. Actually, I’m partial to the gnochi with the thick, coma-inducing gorgonzola sauce. But that just shows how good this place is. I mean, anyone who can make a gnochi that can compete head-to-head with the linguine vongole cozze deserves all the patrons who can squeeze into its smallish but quaint dining area. Smallish but quaint. Ha! Two words that could describe me, too. Probably should be etched onto my tombstone some day, a very long time from now: Here lies Raquel Bianes. Beloved daughter, sister, ex-wife, almost-mother, and friend. She shall be remembered as smallish but quaint. I like it. Has an original ring to it.
The only thing bugging me right now is that Jerónimo is late. Per usual. But thank God for this second glass of Kinderwood merlot which is pretty good for the price and getting better with each sip. Just have to be careful not to ruin my dinner with this fantastic bread. But this is a celebration week for me so I can splurge if I want. Three years cancer-free. Almost two years divorced. And about one year since Jerónimo and I accidentally had sex following too many martinis celebrating two years cancer-free and one year divorced. But he is a gentleman and declared that he couldn’t really remember if we actually did the deed so maybe it didn’t happen after all, yadda-yadda. But he wasn’t too drunk to remember to use a rubber. So I like to remind him that we did, indeed, fuck our brains out but he doesn’t want to hear it. An editor shouldn’t sleep with one of his authors, he says, over and over and over again. Besides, he generally prefers men so lets just drop it. Well, Jerónimo Vargas, you know what? You broke your little rule last year. We’re still friends but every so often that night creeps back to me, in a haze, kind of fuzzy like a high school memory of too much pot before a football game. But the memory is there. Forever. And I’m happy I have it. Particularly with my innards cut out, and all. ¡Ay! It felt so good to fuck you, and to be fucked. I needed to feel something, to feel close to someone, and it might as well be someone I care about, right? So what if you edit my novels, too? So, you know my brain and my cunt. Might as well have the whole package. ¿No? But don’t get the wrong idea, Jerónimo. Like Papá used to say: No hay que confundir la gratitud con el amor. One should not mistake gratitude for love. I appreciate that night. I am grateful. But I don’t love you. A writer can’t fall in love with her editor. Not possible. Don’t you agree? And where the hell are you? I’m starving!
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