Expiration Dating Read online

  “Look up,” he said against my neck. I laughed because his breath tickled my inner ear. I glanced up and let go of Andrew, clapping my hands at the sight of the most beautiful chandelier I had ever seen. Andrew had managed to weave me through the crowd until we were directly in the center under the exquisite masterpiece. It sparkled and glittered as the disco lights bounced off the diamonds.

  Andrew retrieved my hands and pulled me tight as we swayed to the music, staring at the shimmering mess of glass for a very long time. He finally cleared his throat, and I broke out of my sparkle induced trance. I glanced over my shoulder and saw where he was staring. Emilia was full on making out with someone that was most likely German based upon his blue eyes, blond hair and larger-than-Italian build.

  “Looks like the invisible alcohol found its way into Emilia’s bloodstream,” I joked, uncomfortable at the close proximity between Andrew and me. I extracted my camera from my clutch and started snapping pictures of the unlikely duo.

  “Emilia will hate me tomorrow,” I squealed. I finally had dirt on Miss Perfect. I glanced at Andrew for his approval. He looked away at the same moment, but I sensed his eyes had not been on the other couple.

  “Thanks for the dance,” he said. “One more?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m going to go save Emilia.” I went down to the bathroom instead, however, to collect myself. Something had clicked as I danced with Andrew; I think I had a little crush on my class partner.

  An hour later, I had managed to collect Emilia and call us a cab. The German was trying to find her, looking lost like a young puppy dog. I felt for him, but not bad enough to subject Emilia to further humiliation. I ushered her into a taxi. As I helped her in, I glanced up and caught Andrew’s eye. He was talking with his roommates, who were also trying to call a cab. The eye contact went on for one second too long before I shut the cab door. I saw Andrew turn towards his friends. I glanced back for one last look and caught him doing the same; embarrassing. After pouring Emilia into bed as soon as we got home, I hopped in myself, lying awake for a long time.

  Chapter Nine

  I arrived in class the next morning holding my breath. One glance around the room told me Andrew was missing. Maybe he’d been more inebriated than I’d thought last night, and he wouldn’t remember dancing together at all. That’d be a relief.

  I took my usual seat and zoned out as Italian 101 began. Ten minutes into the lecture Andrew arrived. His hair was rumpled as if he’d just rolled out of bed, but beyond that there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary. I briefly remembered playing with his curls, then pushed the thought out of my head. He shelled out a quick smile as he sat down.

  “Late night?” I asked. He leaned over my shoulder to see which page we were working off. He smelled good, too good. Keep it together. By the time class was finishing up, I felt normal around Andrew again. I’d figured out the perfect solution to my nonexistent problem; we were friends with dancing benefits.

  We headed up towards the coffee shop.

  “Wanna get lunch today?” Andrew asked. “My place, I’ll cook.”

  “Oooh, he cooks and he dances,” I said. Was I flirting?

  “I cook a mean pasta sauce.”

  I thought for a minute.

  “OK, sure,” I decided. What the heck, it was better than another muffin and Pringles.

  “Really?” He seemed surprised. “Great!”

  We made our way onto the subway. He led me onto the Red Line, the same metro that I rode every day, except this time we boarded in the opposite direction. The voice over the speakers screeched the doors open on the ry-ght seven times, as Andrew and I tried to carry on a normal conversation above the bustle of the Italians and the jerky stops that tossed us around the cart. I thought I’d be suave and show him I could stand on the metro and balance without holding the poles.

  Turns out, that’s not a good idea when you have a heavy backpack tipping you away from your center of gravity. At one point I barreled directly into him, accidentally grabbing his bag, yanking on his shoulder as I nearly went down.

  “Sorry,” I said as he rubbed his arm. I took a firm grip on the pole for the rest of the ride.

  We got off a few stops short of his exit and meandered around the streets. We were in a new section of town and lost track of time as we examined the quaint shops. There were innumerable restaurants, cafés and specialty stores. Andrew’s confusion was apparent as we passed a store selling only scarves.

  “How do these stores make money?” He stopped in front of a window, arms folded. I fidgeted under his gaze.

  “I guess I never really thought about it.” I looked down at the ground.

  “Seriously, though. I’ve seen places that sell only socks, only chess boards, only… heck I’ve seen a store that sells only pens. How do they survive?” He ran a hand through his hair, rumpling it even more. “It doesn’t economically make sense.”

  “I guess. Hey, where’s your supermercado?” I started walking again. He breathed a large sigh and followed my footsteps down the street. I had no idea where we were headed.

  We eventually saw PAM, a grocery store that didn’t exist in my area of Milan. We walked inside, Andrew stopping to pet the dog chained to the door. I didn’t stop; I wasn’t going to get pet slobber on my hands before I picked out my fruit for the day. We walked around the store, Andrew commenting on how much he loved exploring grocery stores. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye; it was a shared passion, but I wasn’t about to admit it.

  We took our time, me listening intently while he explained the names and origins of all the exotic fruits. I stood by, touching each and every one. There was one fruit shockingly orange, mushy to the point of spongy that looked incredible. I pointed and asked what its name was. At his answer, I gave a small snort.

  “Cocky?” I picked up the squishy fruit. “You’re telling me, you eat cocky?”

  In response, Andrew pointed at the sign. It read: Khaki.

  “The Italian word is khaki; in English we call them persimmons.”

  “Right.” I quickly set the fruit down. I strode over to the broccoli and reached for a head. Was it called a head of broccoli? I was putting it in the plastic bag when Andrew laid a hand on my arm.

  “Don’t get the broccoli. It’s out of season.”

  “So?” I asked.

  “So, you should stick with the stuff that’s in season. It tends to be much fresher, not to mention cheaper.”

  I left the broccoli lying in the plastic bag, in the pile of the rest of the broccoli heads or whatever they’re called.

  “How do you know so much, huh? How do you have that much room in your brain?” I tapped Andrew’s noggin next to his right temple.

  He shrugged. “My mom is smart, and I guess I just picked it up from her. I don’t know. It’s just something you grow up with, I guess.”

  “Guess so,” I said, striding to the apples. Maybe that’s why he talked so sophisticated. I picked up an apple, hoping that my try was a charm. Andrew cleared his throat.

  “What now?” I held a plastic bag in one hand, an apple in the other and turned to face him. Andrew put the broccoli I’d left sitting in the bag back in its rightful place. He simultaneously pointed at a sign near the fruit that seemed to shout instructions in Italian. I had no idea what it said.

  “You need to put the plastic gloves on before touching the fruit,” he said, tilting his head in the direction of the aisle. Sure enough, there was a picture of a person pulling on the oversized plastic gloves.

  “No one will care.” I continued selecting my apples.

  As I spoke, an Italian lady standing at one of the cashiers waddled over, her purple hair bouncing under the fluorescent lights. I had no idea what the stream of words meant that exploded out of her mouth, but I could tell they weren’t good.

  She grabbed the glove from its box and showed me how to insert my hand. I wanted to tell her the problem wasn’t me understanding how to put a glove on my
hand. What I said, like an idiot, was thank you. She nodded, satisfied that I was a tourist, and took her bobbing purplish head back to the register.

  I looked at Andrew, but he averted his eyes and started putting pears into his cart. He had a glove on. I caught the tail end of a smile as he turned and headed for the cheese.

  “I think you can take your glove off, now,” Andrew said as I examined the milk cartons, trying to decide which milk versus cream was.

  “Can’t be too safe.” I carried my products to the register.

  The stroll back to Andrew’s place was pleasant; we were in no rush. The day was slightly above sixty with the sun’s warmth supplementing our jackets against the chill in the air. Andrew enjoyed showing me the buildings he found interesting, and I was surprised to admit I wasn’t bored. He had a particular fascination with the architecture of doors, something I’d never noticed before. At one point, he snapped a quick picture.

  “For my dad,” he said. As a general rule, I wasn’t particularly enthralled with architecture, but even I could admire the banks’ intricate stone details, the statues upon statues. We passed one department-like store that had a sign in the windows reading: Coca Drains. We laughed at the not-quite-translated correctly sign; Cola was a direct translation for the English word drain. Hence, Coca Drains.

  “Get your ice cold Coca Drains here!” I called out as Andrew cracked a smile. He was a good sparring partner; sharp-witted and clever, easy to joke around with.

  As we basked like reptiles in the sunlight, it was easy to chat about everything from living in Minnesota, to moving away for college, to our family background. In between the lines, I gathered that he came from a family that was very well off. I could just tell by his diction; the very essence of how he spoke was a telltale sign of a high level education.

  We were nearing his house as I realized we’d lapsed into silence. I caught myself thinking about how different we were; how different he was from the men I usually dated. I scratched my head and breathed out loudly, remembering we weren’t dating. My relationship history, upon reflection, depicted a certain soft spot for assholes. No wonder I wasn’t swooning over him – he actually seemed nice; a tad cocky maybe, but decent enough.

  “What?” Andrew asked.

  “Oh, nothing.” I’d been wondering what he’d think of Auntie Annette and her racial slurs and hadn’t realized I’d laughed out loud. “Is this it?”

  Andrew was striding towards an elevator, then at the last minute turned left and led me up five flights of stairs.

  “The walk back from the grocery store wasn’t good enough?” I huffed.

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he went straight to the kitchen and got into a cooking zone; he wasn’t lying about his cooking abilities.

  Andrew chopped onions, diced tomatoes and sprinkled fresh basil over the top, then threw it all into a pot. Not knowing what to do with myself, I perched on a stool and leaned over the counter, head in hand and watched his practiced movements. The only glitch was that Andrew kept whacking my hand with a spoon as I tried to take bites out of the prematurely cooked pasta sauce.

  “There won’t be (whack) anything left if (whack) you keep eating that!” he said. (whack).

  “Mmmmm.” I fluttered my eyelashes.

  (whack) “Seriously! Go away.” He seemed kind of serious, so I decided to give him a break. I wandered around the apartment instead. His place was much more spacious than mine. There was an intricately architected banister leading up to a small loft. Andrew shared a bedroom upstairs with Josh, while the rest of the roommates lived on the main floor. The living room housed a beaten up but nice looking piano; I made a mental note to test Andrew on his playing skills later.

  “You can eat now,” he said carrying two steaming plates into the dining room.

  “This looks delicious.” I started chowing down.

  Moments later, I wiped my face after licking the bowl clean. It was the first time I had looked up since digging in, and I realized I hadn’t said a word. Neither of us had. Andrew looked up as well, only a few bites left.

  “That’s my style,” he said. “Eat first, talk later.”

  I nodded and dumped myself on the couch, content not to move for the rest of the afternoon. I peered around the cushions and saw a wooden game lying on the table.

  “No way do you have a cribbage board,” I called to Andrew who was dropping off the dishes in the kitchen.

  “Yeah, do you play?” he asked.

  “Do I play, is that even a question?” I shook my head.

  “It’s on.” He challenged me with a stare as he poked his head out of the kitchen door, a towel hanging over his wrist.

  I got the game set up, and Andrew soon joined me, carrying two cups of tea over to the table.

  “Thanks. You read my mind,” I said, gratefully sipping the spicy chai. He nodded, already in game mode. We played an intense round of the Midwestern game, neck and neck the entire time. I lost on the last hand after spending most of the game significantly ahead. It was an unlikely come-back on his part.

  “CHEATER. CHEATER. That’s not fair!” I stomped around the living room.

  “Oh yeah, and how’d I cheat?” Andrew asked, laughing, thoroughly enjoying his victory. I heard the door open and took a few deep breaths to settle myself. Vince and Josh appeared, arguing about whether they should get a Gyro from the stand next door now, or if they should wait until dinner. Vince glanced up.

  “Cribbage!” he squealed. “Ooh, my god, you guys remind me of home.”

  Josh looked confused, “What, is this a drinking game?”

  The three of us stood motionless, staring at Josh. “What?”

  “It’s a Minnesota thing,” Andrew said, as if explaining a concept to a toddler. “A game.”

  I decided that now was as good a time as any to bid my farewells. Andrew walked me to the door and watched as I got into the rickety old lift. It was one of those elevators that looked like an above ground shark tank. There were no solid walls, only gated poles similar to a bird cage. Because of the open top, I could hear Andrew as I rode down.

  “By the way, get a phone!” he shouted as I disappeared from sight. “Some people want to get a hold of you.”

  I thought about what he’d said as I descended. I remembered the Italian bartender who had given me his number. Yes, I should get a phone soon, I decided.

  I tried to find a store on my way home, but I ended up so hopelessly lost, I was lucky to even find my way to my apartment. Not to mention, I was already frustrated from my cribbage loss, resulting in an extraordinarily crabby girl arriving home two hours later.

  “Hey!” Emilia greeted me, peach in hand as I walked in the door.

  “Mmmrph,” I grumped, heading straight to my room. Emilia was not to be shaken.

  “How was lunch?” she asked, trying to look innocent. She couldn’t fool me.

  “Fine,” I responded.

  “And Andrew?”

  “Fine.” I paused and realized she wasn’t going away. “There’s nothing happening. I lost in cribbage and can’t buy a phone, and I have slept like three hours in the last three days.”

  “Right,” Emilia said. “Not counting the ten hours you slept yesterday.”

  I climbed into bed and closed my eyes, hoping Emilia would get the picture. She headed out of the room. As she closed my door, she added, “Andrew’s a nice guy.”

  I pretended to be sleeping. As soon as I heard the door click shut, however, I lay awake with my eyes open.

  Chapter Ten

  A short while later, after realizing I wouldn’t be able to nap, I changed into a tank top and ratty shorts.

  “Emilia, I’ll be back – going for a run,” I said, already locking the door.

  With my back to the oversized wooden door, I looked towards the staircase.

  Do it. Take the stairs.

  I pressed the call button for the elevator.

  Think the extra calories you’d burn.

 
I waited for three minutes.

  Don’t be lazy.

  I tapped my foot for the next four minutes.

  I’ve invested this much time, might as well wait, now.

  The elevator light flicked on and a ding announced its arrival.

  Doesn’t make sense to be out of breath before I start.

  The metal doors suctioned shut, with me comfortably inside.

  I jogged towards the outskirts of the city. Running was the one escape I could count on anywhere in the world. I moved at a slow pace, stretching out my legs. I tilted my nose towards the Pasticceria on the corner, where the warm, cinnamon scent of freshly baked bread permeated the surrounding air. Though I was tempted to stop, I pushed myself past, forcing the brief inhalation to be enough.

  I ran on the sidewalks, dodging strollers and ignoring the funny looks directed my way. I got stares primarily from businessmen; Italian women seemed to never sweat in public, it was obviously a fashion faux pas.

  I didn’t understand this about Italy; there was a focaccia shop on every corner and four bars per block, so how did the Italians stay so thin with zero exercise? I coughed, passing through a shroud of smoke outside of a metro stop. Maybe it was the cigarettes.

  Eventually the landscape began to change. I discovered a park with lush grass and sturdy trees, away from the fumes and noises of the city. The greenery was soothing, and I found myself slowing to a walk, enjoying the atmosphere and the crispness of the outdoors. The path wound its way up, lazily circling the hill in a spiral towards the peak. I breathed in the freshness as I climbed. I craned my neck, swiveling my gaze back and forth as I tried to catch a glimpse beyond the trees. It wasn’t until I reached the top that I was able to look out over the city.