Romance Impossible(3)

"I believe I'm done here." Chef Dylan stood up, throwing his linen napkin onto his barely-touched plate and storming towards the exit. As he went, I swore I heard him mutter unbelievable under his breath.

Unbelievable, all right.

Un-fucking-believable.





***



THREE YEARS LATER





"Sorry, Heidi. No crusts for you this time." I licked my fingers to emphasize my point, but Heidi just stared up at me with those soulful eyes. When she finally realized I was being serious, she let out a massive sigh, then plopped her big bull-head down on my lap.

I had to laugh. It was pretty sad that things had gotten to this point, where I was eating every crust of every peanut butter sandwich because I didn't know when I'd be able to afford groceries again. But Heidi, my "guard" dog and constant companion for the past few years, never failed to put me in better spirits. She was still eating the best gourmet pet food that money could buy, of course. I always was a sucker for those who couldn't help themselves.

Leaning back on the sofa, I began to indulge in my nightly ritual of pondering, when did it all go wrong?

I knew the answer, but I kept on turning it over and over in my head, like that would make a difference.

A few months after Chef Dylan's fateful visit, Giovanni's had closed. Whether it was a coincidence or not, I couldn't say. It wasn't like the man was a food critic. We were on a downward spiral anyway. Worse, even, than I'd guessed. The reason why Chef Souverani never promoted me? He simply couldn't afford it. And every time Lenny called in, that saved him a buck or two on payroll, so after a while he stopped bitching the guy out. By the time we shut down, he'd taken out two loans against his house, sold almost everything he owned, and was several months overdue on most of our vendor bills. It got to the point where they wouldn't even deliver the meat anymore, unless we had enough cash to cover the bill.#p#分页标题#e#

Ever since then, things had been rough. I hopped from failing restaurant to failing restaurant, honing my skills and making connections, but apparently cursing every place I touched. Well - in fairness to me, a lot of restaurants were failing, in this economy. And the successful ones didn't tend to have a very high turnover rate. My options were about as limited as they could get.

And now, once again, I was living off my dwindling savings, trying to decide whether my electrical bill or my phone bill would be the next logical casualty.

Things were Not Good.

Sighing, I got up and flicked on the TV. Any distraction was a good one, at this point. I squinted at the fuzzy signal, then went to the window and fiddled with the rabbit ears until they picked up something that looked like it might be PBS. But I quickly realized I couldn't actually see the picture unless I was touching the antenna, and settled for the local news.

"...notorious celebrity chef Maxwell Dylan is slated to open his latest gourmet restaurant, Dylan's Trattoria, on Beacon Hill in just a few weeks," one of the anchors was saying. I felt my stomach clench automatically, at just the sound of his name.

"You know, Sharon," the other anchor piped up. "I have to say, people love to beat up on the guy, and he's an easy target, but you just can't deny his passion for food. He holds himself to the same standards he expects of everybody else. How he's going to find the time to get this place off the ground, I don't -"

I grabbed the remote and switched the TV off. So much for a distraction. Heidi lifted her head, looking at me with concern.

"Don't worry, girl," I assured her. "We'll be fine. We'll get through this, right? We always do."

She thumped her tail on the sofa, believing me as she always did. I just wished I could be half so confident.





***



The TV in the waiting room was absolutely blaring. As usual, my doctor was running an hour late. But I didn't have many choices on my discount state medical insurance, and the headaches were only getting worse.

Back when I had good coverage, I'd had some serious tests done, some MRIs, even, but nothing showed up. My doctor kept saying it was stress and neck tension, that they weren't even technically migraines even when it felt like my head was going to explode. She suggested yoga. I tried to picture myself in Lululemon and almost laughed in her face.

Even as I sat here, I could feel one of the headaches creeping up on me. I rubbed the base of my neck and tried to focus on the TV, rather than just letting it drift into obnoxious background noise.

Some kind of cooking channel. I couldn't keep track of all the different ones, nowadays. Chopped was just ending. I stretched my neck from side to side, seeking that satisfying pop. It never came.

"THIS WEEK, ON DYLAN'S 'KITCHEN FIXER UPPERS' -"