“Not so fine. He had an accident on the high beam and tore his ligament.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. Though I was glad to hear he had an excuse for ignoring me.
“He was doing a demonstration when he had a miscalculation, and now he has to stay off the leg, so I bring him food after work. I am sure he would like to see you at his flat on Green Street, number seventeen-forty-two,” she said pointedly.
Actually, I owed her nephew because he showed up with food for me when I fell off a ladder a few months ago. “I’ll go see him,” I promised. And I would, but not tonight. I was in no mood to cheer anyone up but myself.
“What about your pizza?” she asked.
“I’ll have the daily special,” I said looking at my take-out menu. “Rainbow chard, red onions, feta cheese . . .”
“Why not try the Romanian special instead?” she asked.
“My personal favorite, which I am making myself when not taking telephone orders. It comes with cabbage, tomato sauce, and grilled carp.”
“I’ll stick with the pizza of the day,” I said firmly. Grilled carp might be delicious, but on pizza?
She sounded disappointed, but she confirmed my order, and I said, “La revedere,” and hung up.
The pizza arrived an hour later—it was delicious with a glass of Two-Buck Chuck merlot, which I sipped and congratulated myself on being sensible and frugal. Tomorrow would be better. Tomorrow I would sign up for cooking classes somewhere. If Meera could make pizza, why couldn’t I learn to cook too? Maybe the California Culinary Academy, or a smaller, more intimate place like Tante Marie’s Cooking School, where I’d learn basic French techniques. I would unpack my dishes, buy a set of pots and give little dinner parties instead of sitting around waiting for men to call and invite me out. Yes, tomorrow had to be better.
But it wasn’t.