Page 40 of Melancholia

Yet tonight, my brain apparently thinks I need to relive the worst moment in my life. I shake my head when he continues to look at me, trying to fix him with a look that feels like anything other than desperation. “That’s all you’re getting from me. My hallucinations are my own, thank you very much.” There’s a dry note to my voice, and maybe that’s what brings a soft smirk to Amir’s lips.

“As you wish,” he finally relents, lifting his hand from mine.

I want to let out a breath of relief at that. He’s no longer touching me. No longer pinning me in place with the soft stroking of his thumb over my knuckles.

So why do I feel suddenly like I’m less anchored to the moment than before? Why do I miss the warmth on my skin, and the way his touch had been like a feather?

I shouldn’t want it back.

I snatch my hand back, maybe a little too quickly, though Amir doesn’t remark on it. But I follow his lead and open the menu, nearly stroking out over the prices listed.

“You know I am not paying for my meal here, right?” I ask before glancing up his way. “Because I do not make this much on a mortician’s assistant salary.”

Amir just fixes me with a quick glance of his honey-brown eyes. “Nell, I invited you out for dinner.”

Invited might be the wrong word, I think to myself. But I’m smart enough not to press the point while we’re out in public.

“Get whatever you want. The meal is on me, and your repayment is your company.”

“My unwilling company,” I grumble. My fingers tap against the laminated pages of the menu, but my eyes drift back down to it. The demure, mindful thing to do would be to get something cheap. Something not messy and something I know I’ll eat.

The waitress comes over, setting down two waters as she does. “Good evening, guys,” she greets, her glance going from Amir to me. If she recognizes him like the hostess, she doesn’t show it. “What can I get started for you? Something other than water?”

It’s times like this I wish I was a drinker. Their wine list is impressive, including the⁠—

“May I have a glass of the Ornellaia?” Amir asks gently. My eyes flick down the wine list, and I find it’s definitely in the higher range, and only a few ranks lower than the most expensive option.

Well, there goes my ability to empty his wallet tonight. Amir looks at me, expectant, and I have to admit defeat in this arena. But he continues to stare, like there’s something important about this specific wine that I’m obviously missing.

Maybe he expects me to be some kind of wine connoisseur, when I am most decidedly not.

“Can I just get unsweet tea?” I ask politely, though by the way the waitress looks at me, I realize I’ve revealed my Midwestern roots. “Iced tea,” I correct myself. Though the embarrassment in my chest is small, it feels like a coiled up worm trying to wrap around my heart. Not painful, but not comfortable, either. The waitress leaves and I look back down at the menu.

“No wine? Not even a mixed drink? A beer?” Amir asks with interest.

“Psych meds don’t like alcohol,” I reply in a quiet voice. He already knows I’m unwell. There’s no harm in letting him know that I’m also medicated. “I doubt you want me puking and ruining your reputation at this very nice restaurant.” I flip the page, discovering the first page of Italian entrees.

I cannot remember the last time I ate really good pasta. When the waitress comes back, I order first, asking for the lasagna. For Amir’s part, he gets the surf and turf. A literal fucking lobster tail on a random date, while sort of kidnapping the girl he’s threatening.

What a weird guy.

Or maybe just a really rich guy who likes what he likes and doesn’t compromise when he doesn’t need to. He also orders oil for the bread, then takes one look at me and asks for a cup of marinara as well.

I’ve never felt more like an uncultured plebeian. As the waitress leaves, I fix him with a look, sitting back in my chair. “You think my palette isn’t refined enough for oil and vinegar?"

“I think I would rather cover my bases than assume. You’re not very forthcoming, in case you didn’t know.” He sits back as well, studying my face unabashedly. “Is he still here?”

I know who he means without asking, and I can’t help but glance out the window to see only the empty sidewalk and mostly empty parking lot beyond.

“No.”

“I see.”

We sit there in silence for long enough for the waitress to bring us the bread, along with the oil and marinara Amir had requested.

Pointedly, I ignore the marinara sauce in its little black condiment cup. I tear off a piece of my bread and swirl the balsamic into the oil, not caring if he doesn’t like it that way. It’s my silent protest, or maybe an assertion of why I do not want to be here.

Even if the bread is really, really good and incredibly fresh. I can’t help sneaking another bite before I put it down, and I look up to see Amir is twirling his own bread in the oil-vinegar mixture. “It’s very good, right?” he asks without looking up. “It’s a big part of why I come here, actually.”