Free Red Meat Cures Cancer by Starbuck O'Dwyer Page A

tension between us. Despite my natural frustration at the unenviable position I found Tailburger in, I couldn’t help what came out of my mouth next.
    “Would you also be willing to have dinner with me tonight?”
    Muffet looked at me with some surprise and then smiled ever so slightly.
    “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
    “C’mon. You’ve got to eat.”
    “This would be strictly on a professional basis, right?”
    “Well, not exactly.”
    Muffet smiled a bit more broadly.
    “Sky, let me make sure of something before I agree to this. You don’t think you can wine and dine this situation away?”
    “Of course not.”
    Muffet hesitated and took a long look at me.
    “I guess sharing a meal wouldn’t be against the rules.”
    The potential repercussions of dating the opposition didn’t occur to me right then. The moment she said yes, my imagination wandered until all I could picture was the two of us naked and alone on a bed of rose petals—a psychic remnant from watching
American Beauty
one too many times.
    Later that night we met at Ristorante Piccolo, a tiny hideaway on 31st Street just off of M in Georgetown. The younger set surrounding us made me feel like a college boy who couldn’t wait to get his date back to the dorm room. After a few drinks, her guard came down.
    “Some days I wish I wasn’t fighting against the beef industry.”
    “Why do you say that? You’re pretty good at it.”
    “Mostly because of Mark. (Pause) If he hadn’t died, I never would’ve gotten involved with SERMON. I guess I still miss him and work is a constant reminder he’s gone.”
    “I know how you feel. I lost my wife back in ’94.”
    “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”
    “It’s okay.”
    “Were you married long?”
    “Ten years.”
    “That’s how long I was with Mark. Didn’t the house seem so empty?”
    “Well, in my case, it was already empty.”
    “It was?”
    “See she wasn’t technically my wife at the time she died.”
    “No?”
    “No. Not technically. (Pause) We were sort of divorced.”
    “I see.”
    “And she was sort of married to another guy.”
    “Sort of?”
    “Yes. (Pause) To
Triperrr.
Isn’t that an awful name?”
    “I don’t care for it.”
    “Me neither. I hate it. (Pause) Anyway, I still loved her. (Pause) A lot.”
    “It hurts, doesn’t it?”
    I nodded.
    “I think about Mark every single day. Everyone said time would make it better, but it hasn’t. In some ways, it’s gotten worse. I find myself feeling lonely more often than I like to admit. (Pause) Do you think the pain ever just goes away for good?”
    “No . . .”
    Muffet was disappointed by the first part of my answer.
    “. . . but I think you’ll be happy again.”
    “I hope so.”
    I’d misjudged Muffet Meaney. She wasn’t the row of razor wire I’d observed from a distance. She was more like a flower—a sensitive, intelligent, thoughtful, caring, woman who only needed sunlight, some water and a spray or two of Miracle-Gro. She was vul-ner-a-ble, and just like me, she’d loved and lost.
    Muffet and I made eyes at each other the rest of the night (except when I was outside smoking Commodores) and successfully forgot about our earlier meeting. Though the evening was devoid of rose petals, I knew that, upon kissing her good night, I had to see her again.

8
    Long Live the King
    BACK IN ROCHESTER
    Two days after I returned to Rochester from D.C., my big brother, King, arrived unannounced. I found him on my front stoop with his head resting on a beat-to-shit backpack, the only piece of luggage in sight. A longtime fan of the Hawaiian shirt, he looked and smelled like he’d been on tour with Jimmy Buffett for the past three years. Although he was thin and tan, his angular face was badly weathered by the sun. This, however, didn’t stop him from pointing out
my
physical failings.
    “There’s my baby brother. My word, you look awful.”
    King hugged me before I could voice my objection to the