“I’m really mad at you, don’t you feel bad about that?” The waiter took away her menu. She ordered the moussaka, here where she says it reminds her the most of the moussaka her grandma used to make when she was growing up, the most “authentic” is how she put it, closest to real “old country.”
“Well I always have at least one person mad at me,” he said, “maybe two. At any given time. I don’t pay it much mind really, I figure it goes with the territory. Life. I often don’t say anything which seems to be a catalyst and like now I’m bearing the brunt of it all and being told I’m supposed to feel bad. Well I don’t one iota.”
“But you oughta show remorse for how you’re acting. It’s shameful really.”
He signaled the waiter, indicating his highball glass. He really didn’t know what else to do but drink like a fish when they got together. This for enduring these long, inventive harangues where lately he played a starring role, the endless stories of intrigue and melodrama, creative stories that as far as he was concerned hardly mirrored reality.
And with lots of rehashing thrown in for good measure.
“See I’m only well-intended and didn’t do anything to deliberately hurt you. It’s exhausting always having to explain myself here. If you’re all riled up and your looking at me reminds you of the deck you’ve been dealt, that’s the hand you’re gonna have to play. I’ve been minding my own business. Have you talked to your analyst lately?”
The waiter laid down her moussaka.
“No but I’m reading a book that says because of all my repressed trauma-”
“I’m not gonna feel bad like you think I should to prove in some sick twisted way that I love you. I see that’s how you’re operating.” He took a long swig from his glass and with set it back down on the table with a heavy hand. “We made no deal here that I’m to help heal you and get you what you need when you don’t know even know what in the hell that is yourself. I didn’t sign up for that. I’m just a bystander, comprende? Find someone else to feel bad.”