He had a great vocabulary and a neat combover and an extensive collection of fine hats. He was generous, scooping creamed spinach onto everyone else’s plate before his own. He ate and drank voraciously but there was a dignity to his excess.
He was very intelligent and clean and had a warm face. He was my boss, and for a long time before anything happened, I looked up to him. His arms were pale and soft and I couldn’t stop looking at them. I’d seen him only once in casual clothes, a t-shirt and jeans, and it disturbed me very much. The sauce was thick and rust-colored and there was a bright sprig of parsley at the top. I was eating a bowl of tagliatelle Bolognese. On the exposed brick walls hung photographs of old Italian women rolling gnocchi across their giant floured fingers. Do you see how this is going? But I wasn’t always that way.
He did it in a restaurant where I was having dinner with another man, another married man. He was a gluttonous man and when his blood came out it looked like the blood of a pig. I drove myself out of New York City where a man shot himself in front of me.
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