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“I don’t think her boyfriend cares. He’s starting to look like that bull we ran from in Pamplona. Remember that?”
“How can I forget? That thing’s horns came way too close to my ass for comfort.”
“I’ve never seen you run that fast,” Elio cackles.
The boyfriend who’s been checking Elio and I out since we walked in, gets up from his table and comes over with two of his mates.
Fuck. I’m not here to fight. I hope they listen to reason, because in the mood I’ve been in lately, I could easily push the cartilage of his nose through his stupid brain.
“You like what you see?” he slurs his accusation at us.
Elio and I ignore him. He’s not pleased. Boneheads don’t like that.
“Hey! I’m talking to you pretty boy,” he says again, pokes me with his finger.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Elio threatens in a calm tone.
“Oh, yeah? And what are you planning on doing about it?”
I look down and shake my head. All I wanted to do was eat a steak and drink some whiskey. This asshole is pissing on my parade. Pent up rage is seething just beneath the surface of my otherwise cool and collected exterior.
I tell him politely to go fuck himself in Italian. He clearly doesn’t speak the language because he doesn’t react the way he would have, had he understood me.
“Why don’t you go and sit down before I’m forced to teach you some manners?” I try again.
This time he gets my drift.
“Why don’t you stop staring at my girlfriend, you dirty peasant?” he retorts.
I refuse to cause a scene in this nice restaurant. It was one of Pappa’s favorite places to eat, and I won’t sully the memory of us together by breaking this asshole’s face here. So, quick as a flash, I jump to my feet, grab the dickhead by his hair, and drag him toward the exit. Elio does his bit to take care of the two friends who signed up for their friend’s suicide mission.
The girlfriend starts yelling at us from their table, but it’s too late for reasoning. I did my best, but the fool wouldn’t listen. Now it’s time for reckoning.
We’re outside in record time. The man struggles, unsuccessfully, to free himself from my steely grip. I throw him down on the ground and kick him once in the ribs. I can feel the bones cracking under my boot.
You’d think that he would call it a day and apologize or something vaguely intelligent like that. But the booze is talking louder than his reason, so he hurls another insult at me.
I’m on top of him now, He’s throwing wild punches at me. One grazes my chin and I taste blood. Like that bull in Pamplona, I see red and instantly my rage spills over. My anger at being ambushed by Kyle, my frustration over having left behind my woman and my son, the years of having to put others’ happiness ahead of my own, all come flooding out.
I don’t remember much until Elio pulls me off of the bloodied body on the ground.
“Okay, easy, brother,” he shouts. “You don’t want to kill him. I think he’s learned his lesson.”
I get up, out of breath and covered in his blood. My lip is stinging but I don’t care. That was oddly cathartic.
“We’d better get out of here before the cops come. I don’t think we need that kind of attention,” Elio says and nudges me toward the car.
“I want my fucking steak,” I say after we’ve been driving for a few minutes.
Elio starts giggling.
“What?”
“You already had your steak. That man’s face is a mess.”
“He asked for it. Besides, you egged me on to kick his ass.”
“Guilty. But I suggested ruffling him up. You nearly killed the fool.”