Dinner Guest
by Sofia Occhipinti
The streetlamp in front of the building is out. The only light I can see outside is in the window of the old man’s house across the street. It must be dinnertime; he’s chopping onions. I’ve forgotten to cook again. I might have some almonds from the last time I bought groceries. Must have been months ago. Anyway, I think almonds have protein in them, or something like that.
I find the crumpled bag at the very back of the cupboard, knocking over a few things as I pull it out, decidedly not glancing at the expiry date. The old man is making soup or pasta tonight: big pot. I’ve been watching him cook a few odd months now. He wears a wedding ring, but as far as I can tell he’s the only one living there. Maybe he’s hung up on someone he used to be married to. I pity him.
I used to think about going over and asking him for some of his food, seeing as I always forget to make anything for myself, but also because he looks like he needs someone to talk to. Day after day, nice little meals for himself- shakshuka, English curry, fried eggplant, rosemary focaccia; eating just half, refrigerating the rest, presumably for lunch the next day. Even just sitting in my own kitchen and watching him cook feels like I’m doing him a favour, keeping him company.
As I’m shovelling almonds into my mouth, I notice one of my sweaters hanging on the chair opposite me. I remember now; I put it there to dry last week after doing a load of laundry, I forgot to move it. I’d forgotten it was even there. I’ll fold it and put it away after I’m done.
He’s making pasta, not soup. I saw him pull out a strainer and he’s stirring a bright red sauce. He strains the pasta, piling it into the saucepan, crumbling some kind of cheese and carefully placing bay leaves—or maybe basil leaves—on top. It’s not until he’s serving himself that I notice he’s grabbed two plates instead of just one, like he always does. I sit up, watching intently as he sets the plates down on either end of the usual small table behind him. Except the table is clothed and set, cheap candles of all different shapes and sizes lit and grouped in the middle. The recipient of the second plate is out of view, except for a pair of soft arms, something thin and gold glinting on her left hand. He sits down, smiling at her.
The old man has a date with a married woman.
I laugh in surprise, watching the woman pick up her glass of wine, the man staring at her, pure adoration practically dripping out of his ears as she tastes her meal. She must like him a lot—so much that she doesn’t seem to notice his wearing a wedding ring on their date. Though I suppose she wears one as well. I never would have thought that the old man could be involved in such an affair.
Across the street, I watch them in amusement.
Across from me, I remember the sweater hanging on the backrest. I shake a few almonds out of the bag and on the table in front of the chair the sweater is draped over. I don’t know why I do it. To amuse myself, I guess.
“What’s the matter, aren’t you hungry?” I ask the sweater. “Are you on another one of those damn diets?”
It doesn’t answer.
“I’ve told you before, I think you’re beautiful just the way you are.”
The man is holding the woman’s hands in his now, looking coyly down at his meal. He’s saying something. The woman’s head falls forward a little; she’s laughing.
In response, I reach over and hold the sweater’s sleeves in my hands, gazing fondly at where its head would be, if it were a person. I’m thankful they can’t see me, the only light in my apartment being in the next room, just barely bleeding into the kitchen. The man and the woman carry on like that a little while longer, the sweater and I watching them, I occasionally ad-libbing:
“You’re cuter.”
“No, you are!”
After they’ve finished, they walk into the kitchen. He’s washing the dishes, laughing at something she’s saying, shaking his head like it was something indelicate. She pours a glass of wine as he makes a remark in return.
“You have tiger eyes, did you know that? You could kill a man with those eyes, baby,” I say for him, chewing on the sweater’s uneaten almonds. She has her arms wrapped around his waist now; she’s smiling into his shoulder. He whispers something into her ear.
“I love you, honey baby,” I whisper.
“I love you, baby honey,” in a higher voice.
They kiss and walk away from the window, her arm around his waist. I sit back in my chair, nothing to do now but smile at the silliness of it all. The old man is on a date, and it’s going so well.
But it’s not a date.
Maybe they’ve been married all along. Maybe that’s why he wears a ring. That’s why he always refrigerates half his food after dinner. But why have I never seen her before? I had never seen him with anybody before, let alone a spouse. She could work late shifts, long hours; maybe she works at night. He saves half his dinner for her, it’s sickeningly kind of him.
And here I always thought that I was eating dinner with this guy, keeping him company. I felt like I was doing him a favour, even if he didn’t know it. He tricked me into feeling sorry for him, making me think that he was some poor recluse when really, he had somebody to eat with all along.
In the end, I’m the one with nobody to eat with but this old sweater. A miserly part of me looks forward to the next time she’ll be gone and he’ll have to make dinner for just himself, sitting alone at his sad little table, while I get to feel sorry for his sad little life.
Their kitchen light flicks off, the window just to the left of it lighting up. The man and the woman are holding one another, swaying to music I can’t hear.
And before I can think about it, I too jump up, holding a hand out to the sweater before yanking it off the chair and holding a sleeve out to the length of my arm—we’re waltzing or tangoing, I don’t know the difference.
And maybe I’ve finally lost it—forgetting to cook, talking to a sweater, watching people through the windows. I don’t know. It’s not so bad. We spin into the living room, the creaking floorboards filling the otherwise silent apartment, dancing to music that neither of us can hear.
The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up. Are they watching us, the couple across the street? The old man and his mystery wife? I don’t look to see.
It’s the same either way, isn’t it? Whether I’ve gone crazy and nobody’s here to see it, or if I’ve gone crazy and two people I’ve never met watch it happen.
No, I won’t look to see if they’re watching me. I really don’t mind at all