Ebby and Avery
Ebby and Avery
T wo days ago, Ebby would never have imagined sitting down to lunch in a bistro with her ex’s girlfriend. But here they are.
“Go on,” says Avery. “I want to hear more about Willis.”
“Well, as you know,” Ebby says, “Willis worked in a pottery in South Carolina. And that’s the pottery where the jar I told you about came from.”
A waiter walks by with two plates of a gelatinous-looking dish. Ebby feels her mouth go tight.
“Ooh, look at that,” Avery says, putting a palm to her chest. “That looks like…”
“ Pieds de porc, ” Ebby says. She knows it well. Her friend Hannah loves eating trotters.
“Pigs’ feet!” Avery says, her eyes gleaming.
Gross, thinks Ebby.
“Oh,” says Avery, both hands over her heart, “just look at the way they’ve done that.” She closes her menu and points at the table where the trotters dish has landed. “That’s what I’m having. Do you want to share it? It’s a huge portion.”
Ebby raises her eyebrows. “No, you go ahead. I don’t eat pork.”
“Is that for religious reasons or something?”
“I just don’t eat meat.”
“Oh, what do you eat, then?”
“Anything that isn’t meat,” Ebby says. “Everything else.”
“But how do you manage, here? With all the dishes they serve. The duck. The snails.”
“I just eat what I want. There’s plenty of good stuff. How much food does a person need?”
“Oh, you don’t know what you’re missing.”
“You’re right. I don’t,” Ebby says, making a face. They both chuckle. “And anyway, I hear the snails are better farther in.”
“Oh, yes. In Burgundy, right?”
Ebby nods. Avery has done her research. Avery, Ebby has noticed, is always looking up stuff. At first, Ebby thought Avery was only posting selfies on Instagram or what have you. Since then, she’s figured out that Avery actually spends much of her time reading pretty long articles. Still, it’s too much time online. Ebby watches as Avery reaches for her purse. She’s going for that tablet again, Ebby thinks. Then, to her surprise, Avery stops and pulls her hand away, empty.
“Remind me to look that up later,” Avery says. “After we eat.” Ebby smiles. Avery flutters her fingers and the waiter walks over. Avery asks for the pieds de porc . “But, uh, a half portion?” she asks in French, moving her hands to demonstrate.
“And I’ll have this chilled soup,” Ebby says, pointing to the menu.
Avery makes actual mmm-mmm sounds as she eats. Ebby allows herself to take a good long look at Avery, instead of trying to shield her mind against the insistent prettiness of this woman. Avery smiles at her briefly, raising her eyebrows, then looks down at her plate. Avery, sitting there on the chipped wooden chair in this somewhat dingy-looking bistro, her fingers shiny with grease from that revolting dish on a warm day, her white top already smudged with something, looks perfectly at home.
Ebby tells herself not to grimace at Avery’s food.
“So,” Avery says, wiping at the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “What happened to Willis?”