I Could Listen Forever to the Delicate Sound of Pages Turning

They are browsing in Barnes & Noble. Ava thought it would be distracting. Dinner had been too quiet; they needed a conversation starter, something common: like these colorful books lined up in their rows. They pass the New Releases section, then the poetry. Softly, Ava trails a finger down their spines. Dante, Dove, Plath. She and Betty had been obsessed with Plath sophomore year, the epitome of their search for the dramatic and tortured. They still don’t know what torture is. 1

Betty coughs slightly as they enter the travel section. “Mina went there last year,” she says, gesturing toward a brochure about Italy.2

“Did she?” Lucky bitch, Ava thinks. It seems too abrupt and she doesn’t open her mouth.3

“Yeah.” Betty tucks her hair behind her ear (an ancient habit of hers). “She says the shit from Olive Garden can’t even compare to what they have over there.”4

“Well, that’s not surprising.” 5

They’d gone to Olive Garden earlier. There wasn’t any particular reason for it; they hadn’t planned to do anything together. Both were sitting on their couches with pints of ice cream and reached for the phone and it was just convenient. 6

“Hi, Betty,” Ava had said when she arrived. The last time she’d come here, the summer before leaving, it had been named Corina’s and had sawdust on the floor. It was somewhat surprising to find the place renamed and packed: she hadn’t been out in awhile, and the city had dwarfed her.7

Betty, never one for niceties, acknowledged Ava with a wave of her hand. There was a time when words weren’t necessary; though that certainly wasn’t now, the tradition had become entrenched. 8

“Well,” she said finally. “It’s going to be hell to find a table tonight.”9

Twenty minutes later they were led down the center of the restaurant by an intriguing waiter (“I want him under the table, now”). He gave them a table in the corner, away from all the lights. From somewhere nearby Ava could hear people speaking in another language, maybe something Indian; their lilting voices rose and fell like waves. It was calming, and made her feel somewhat disconnected, unreal. Younger.10

“The ravioli looks good,” Betty was saying into the menu. It was propped up so high on the table that Ava could only see her eyes. “Or spaghetti.”11

“Don’t get spaghetti at an Italian restaurant,” Ava answered automatically. “It’s an insult.”12

“Mm.”13

Their dinner conversation followed no particular pattern. Scraps of the past resurfaced every now and then in little bursts (reminders, like the little sugar packets; familiar faces that were suddenly older). Then it would fall silent again, Ava thinking quick fragmented thoughts that she never considered saying, Betty thinking god knows what, probably something about the waiter. She liked to distract herself like that. 14

They left without dessert. 15

“So,” Ava said. 16

Betty pulled a half-empty pack of Marlboros out of her coat pocket and glanced at her. 17

“It’s freezing,” Ava tried. 18

“It’s February,” said Betty. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.19

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