Their server, Frank, whom they had known for a year, came up to her and asked in soft tones, ‘Do you still want your soup, Rosanna?’ ‘No thanks... Frank,’ she answered and got up to leave the restaurant, her damp sweater and pants clinging to her suggestively. She garnered a few brief stares, but was completely oblivious to anything but the horrible situation she had gotten herself into. She certainly was in the mood for alienating everyone. She would go home, throw a TV dinner in the microwave. Cindy saw fit to call me to talk."I'm curious, you know," she admitted. "I'm in engineering, but I love music. So what's it like? Majoring in music?"I explained to her that I'd been 'in music' since I was nine, about the daily (almost) practices, the music tutors that Mom and Dad provided for me a few times. She sounded genuinely interested."It's beautiful. I'm a little bit jealous," she said."Don't be, Cindy. You have your voice. It's great." She'd sung a couple songs when we shared that. Apparently, she had just stepped out of the shower, and she was just about to settle onto the couch to eat a microwave dinner and watch the news. She invited me in and asked if she could nuke another one for me.I was hungry, but I’ve never tasted a microwave dinner that was anywhere near as good as its hype or the picture on the box. I could wait until I got home. “Oh, uh, no thanks. I’d take a beer, though, if you have one.”“Sorry, no beer. Soda?”“Sure. Thanks.”While she was in the kitchen. And stop disturbing me please, it’s my favorite scene.”It was the perfect moment. I had the plan and until now it was perfect. This was the final moment. I waited in the kitchen for some time and then opened the can and added in the alcohol.“Here,” I said handing her the can.“Thanks, honey,” she took a sip, “why does it taste different?”“Maybe because it’s not chilled.”She said nothing and emptied the whole can. Now all I had to do was wait. Because good thing comes to those who wait.There were.
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