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"C'mon, I'm going to be late," I sighed, already halfway out the storm door.
"Wait," my dad said softly as he ground espresso beans. He tossed two gallon sized ziplock bags of brown-green bay leaves at me. They fluttered to the hardwood floor. "Take them. Give them to that Italian guy you're seeing. I ordered in bulk. There was a good sale."
My dad left the kitchen, careful not to spill his double shot. I hurried to my car, pearling with sweat in the late June humidity. The air was thick. Like stew. Perhaps it would rain later.
On the drive to Floral Park to see aforementioned Italian guy, I mused over the purpose of bay leaves. I enjoyed cooking, considering myself above average at it for a 20-year-old fail daughter, but I don't think I had ever used them. I glanced at the massive clusters of hard, sharp leaves.
At a light, I opened the ziplock, snagged, and bit into a leaf. It was the texture of a potato chip. It was extremely bitter. I spat it out instantaneously. An acrid mix of saliva and partially chewed leaf clung to the steering wheel. I reached into the center console for a Starbucks napkin and wiped it off.
I arrived at the Italian guy's house around 4 p.m. He offered me a glass bottle of Mexican coke. He asked if I had anything to eat that day. I said no. He didn't offer anything. He popped the tops and the drinks fizzed. I procured the bay leaves from my tote bag. He was overjoyed.
"Bay leaves! These are the bomb man. You can do so much with them."
I wanted to say, like what, but I didn't. I followed him downstairs to the basement, which was his primary dwelling in his parents' house. We sat on the couch. He lit incense, and suggested we put on a movie. He wanted to watch Annie Hall. I'd seen it already. Twice. And quite recently. I didn't want to watch it again. This spurred an argument. A trite, petty one. He slung pointed insults at me, which I halfheartedly dodged. I watched his cat out of the corner of my eyes. The little man was biting his claws, sharpening them.
"I'm sorry. We can watch whatever you want. My stomach hurts though."
"It's always something with you. Migraine, tummy ache. But wait, I do have something..."
I followed him up the staircase. We placed the empty coke bottles in a recycling bin. He started up the kettle. Poured plain boiling water in a mug. I watched him stoically. I was very hungry. I hadn't eaten in three days. He handed me the mug. There were two bay leaves floating in the hot water. I looked up at him.
"Secret Italian family trick. The tannins in the leaf are great for digestion. You'll feel better soon."
We went back to the basement. I laid flat on the carpet, sipping the bay leaf water intermittently. I didn't feel better. My stomach was now turning, a queasy knot. Italian guy was at his computer, searching up an Internet Archive rip for Annie Hall. I rolled over. He sensed my movement. He clicked on a song: "Next Time Might Be Your Time" by "Blue" Gene Tyranny.
Stomach still gurgling, we fucked wordlessly. He contorted me into shapes that made my insides squelch. I burped hot, acetous reflux. He laughed.
"So that's what it was," he said. He came on my face, got up, and handed me a paisley handkerchief. I thanked him.
Italian guy and I met four years ago. We were both sales associates at a record store. Hopped up on cortados, we perused Discogs and slapped price stickers on rare first pressings. There wasn't much chemistry. He liked Bright Eyes. I did too. We were the same age. One afternoon when our boss was out of town at a record convention in Jersey, he queued "A Perfect Sonnet." We locked the door. Fucked against boxes of unpriced 4AD records. We started dating. I quit my job after a brief entanglement with our boss, who was 15 years my senior. Italian guy never spoke of this. He still worked there.
My stomach did not feel better. The cat ambled over. I pet the purring black mess of fur. Italian guy slid on his wife beater.
"Since I guess you don't have the bandwidth for a movie, maybe it's time you head back."
I had only been there for three hours. I chewed on my lip. Checked my phone for notifications. A text from my dad: "Making osso buco if u are hungry. see u later."
"Sure. I need to get back for dinner anyway. My dad is cooking."
He nodded and took a hit from a dab pen. I gathered my belongings. We hugged stiffly. The cat followed me upstairs. I shooed him gently away from the door with my foot.
In the car, I started crying. I turned on the Sirius XM radio. First Wave was playing "Never Had No One Ever" by The Smiths, which was odd. It was usually "How Soon Is Now" or that other one that everyone and their Gen X mother knows.
As I neared my dad's house, I got stopped by a light by Huntington Park. There was a girl sobbing on the bench. I wondered why she was crying. I didn't know why I was crying. Someone else's plight might elucidate my own. She suddenly wiped her eyes and whipped out her phone to snap a picture of two swans gliding past in the pond. The light turned green. I accelerated.
Once home, I changed into sweatpants and removed my makeup with a cool aloe wipe. My dad was setting the table for dinner. My stomach still felt off.
I paused for a moment to assess my bedroom. Half read books strewn across the floor. Crumpled tissues, sodden with splotches of blood. Three empty dime bags. Seven mugs of stale coffee. The corners of my sticky tack affixed Smiths poster were flapping forlornly in the cool air spewing out of the AC I'd left running all day. Lyrics to lugubrious songs scrawled in Sharpie across the floral wallpaper.
My dad didn't dare enter my personal living space. The mess was left unchecked. Ever since my mom had left us [amount of time] ago, he'd ceased any attempts at curbing my turpitude. He let me be. I appreciated this. Before joining him for dinner, I smoked a cigarette out my window, and chucked the tissues in the overflowing trash can.
We shared a bottle of dry, tannin heavy Lebanese wine that pairs well with braised beef. A bed of cauliflower rice caught the excess juices. We sipped the wine, sucked marrow out of the little bones.
"How was your day? How is Mario?" My dad let a bone clatter to his bowl. I lifted a forkful of sauce to my mouth, then lowered it.
"It was whatever. My stomach hurt. I think he's disenchanted with me. I can tell...well, I think he's going to break up with me. Long time coming but..."
"Why is that?"
"All we do is...uh. I don't know. We don't really talk. We don't really agree on anything. I don't think he understands...the situation."
The situation was that my best friend Hannah had passed away 6 months ago. She woke up early to feed her cat, fell back asleep, and never woke up. She did a ton of drugs but that wasn't the immediate cause of death. Toxicology was negative. I got a call from our mutual friend two days after it happened. I hadn't questioned the texts Hannah hadn't responded to. Our connection had never been fostered by constant communication. I fell into an unshakeable malaise. Ever since then, I couldn't really eat much. I abused nose drugs. I drank too much wine. I felt like a limp, yellow honeysuckle.
"He ought to understand. Unless he has no empathy."
"I don't know. Some people don't." I finished my second glass of wine. He refilled it. I managed to finish my food. My dad offered another helping. I figured I should accept.
He plopped a heaping spoonful of stew into my bowl. The meat looked like carnage. There was a single bay leaf laid innocently atop of the steaming osso buco.
"Oh, here," my dad said, reaching over towards my plate. He delicately plucked the bay leaf from my stew, stood, and flung it into the trash.
"Why can't you eat them?"
"They'll cut up your throat."
"I feel like they're useless in the food."
"They do something, I couldn't tell you. But you just plop them in for flavor and discard them after. You can't keep them."
"Huh," I said. I sucked down the last of my wine.
"No more for you," my dad chuckled. I sat up and pushed the remainder of my food towards the center of the table.
"Ugh. I feel sick. I think I'm going to go to my room."
"Ok. Let me know if you need anything. I'll be outside. Cigar."
I padded up the creaky stairs. My stomach hurt even worse now, but the wine brought a flush to my face. I had a feeling Italian guy might've texted something unfortunate.
As I neared my bedroom, I glimpsed my own cat, Camus, batting around something. I imagined a cave cricket or a roach. I picked up Camus and glanced down. It was a stupid, paper-thin bay leaf.
"Camus, where'd you get this?" He meowed as if to say how should I know? He clawed at my arm. I dropped him gently. He scurried away.
I inspected the leaf in my hand and closed my fist around it. When I unclenched my hand, it had made a small cut next to what I think was my lifeline. A thin surge of blood erupted from the delicate incision. I pivoted to the bathroom and threw the bay leaf into the toilet.
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