And then late at night we were starving, remember? “Room service?” I said.
“Let’s not push our luck, we’re paying cash,” you said, and found a phone book. “Pizza.”
“Pizza.” I was fierce with the thought of it. My first grown-up meal, I couldn’t help thinking, and what I want is kid stuff.
I was bashful and hid in the bathroom when it was delivered. I listened to you talk normally to the guy and even laugh at something, like it was all normal, standing in a T-shirt and boxers in the doorway, taking the pizza with the dollars in change on top while I huddled by the sink running this through my hair. I felt like I was over by a pole, a bicycle or a dog, while the owner chatted oblivious and relaxed. It was your ease, I realized, your ease and expertise that made me nauseous. I grabbed the comb, the cardboard message on the rack, like I was hiding shameful evidence. I’d never felt something like this, but you’d done it all before.