“I was born hungry.” Once again he fought off a darkening mood. She was trying, and so could he.
The restaurant was dim, nearly empty, and the air simmered with spices. In the corner was a jukebox pumping out a current Top 40 hit. After a glance at a sign that read Please Seat Yourself, Libby led Cal to a corner booth. “The pizza’s really wonderful here. Have you had pizza before?”
He flicked a finger at the hardened candle wax on the bottle in the center of the table. “Some things transcend time. Pizza’s one of them.”
The waitress toddled over, a plump young woman in a bright red bib apron that had Rocky’s and a few splashes of tomato sauce dashed across the front. She placed two paper napkins beside place mats decorated with maps of Italy.
“One large,” Libby said, taking Cal’s appetite into account. “Extra cheese and pepperoni. Would you like a beer?”
“Yeah.” He tore a corner from the napkin and rolled it thoughtfully between his thumb and forefinger.
“One beer and one diet cola.”
“Why is everyone here on a diet?” Cal asked before the waitress was out of earshot. “Most of the ads deal with losing weight, quenching thirst and getting clean.”
Libby ignored the quick curious look the waitress shot over her shoulder. “Sociologically our culture is obsessed with health, nutrition and physique. We count calories, pump iron and eat a lot of yogurt. And pizza,” she added with a grin. “Advertising reflects current trends.”
“I like your physique.”
Libby cleared her throat. “Thanks.”
“And your face,” he added, smiling. “And the way your voice sounds when you’re embarrassed.”
She let out a long, windy sigh. “Why don’t you listen to the music?”
“The music stopped.”
“We can put more on.”
“On what?”
“The jukebox.” Enjoying herself, Libby rose and extended a hand to him. “Come on, you can pick a song.”
Cal stood over the colorful machine, scanning the titles. “This one,” he decided. “And this one. And this one. How does it work?”
“First you need some change.”
“I’ve had enough change for a while, thanks.”
“No, I mean change. Quarters.” Chuckling, she dug into her purse. “Don’t they use coins in the twenty-third century?”
“No.” He plucked the quarter from her palm and examined it. “But I’ve heard of them.”
“We use them around here, often with reckless abandon.” Taking the quarter back, she dropped it and two more into the slot. “An eclectic selection, Hornblower.” The music drifted out, slow and romantic.
“Which is this?”
“‘The Rose.’ It’s a ballad—a standard, I suppose, even today.”
“Do you like to dance?”
“Yes. I don’t often, but...” Her words trailed away as he gathered her close. “Cal—”
“Shh.” He rubbed his cheek against her hair. “I want to hear the words.”
They danced—swayed, really—as the music drifted through the speakers. A mother with two squabbling children rested her elbow on her table and watched them with pleasure and envy. In the glassed-in kitchen a man with a bushy mustache tossed pizza dough in quick, high twirls.
“It’s sad.”