3 - Regrets
I yank open the fridge door—hit by the stench of mold and the hum of the electric motor.
There’s only a box of breadcrumbs; in the crisper, two blackened carrots. I pull them from the bag—soft and mushy. I toss them into the trash.
Damn, I should’ve gone shopping. Now what the hell do I make?
I lean on the kitchen counter. It’s late—everything’s closed by now.
I open my wallet. I thought I had ten euros.
“Marco!” I step into my bedroom and pull on a pair of jeans. “Marco! You gonna answer me?” I button up a black shirt.
My son shuffles out of the bathroom, one sock light blue, the other sky blue. “What’s with all the yelling?” He slumps against the wall and sighs.
“Come on, get dressed. Let’s go grab something to eat at Bob’s.”
He hunches his shoulders. “No way. Not that greaseball again, please.”
I slam the closet shut and tidy up the clothes on the chair. “You know it’s the only place that still lets us run a tab. Come on, move it.”
“What a pain!” he says, disappearing into his room.
Marco hops into the Panda and pushes the seat back. “Who was sitting here, a dwarf?”
The gas light’s been on since yesterday.
I start the engine, hit the washer lever—the wipers screech, smearing dust and bird crap across the rear window.
The sign for Pizzeria da Bob is dark. The first ‘B’ tilts to the right. Shutter’s down.
“Damn, that’s right—it’s closed today!”
Marco sighs. “I’ll take care of it. Turn right.”
“No, we can’t afford—where do you think we’re going?”
He lifts himself off the seat and pulls a fifty-euro note from his pocket. “Don’t worry, it’s on me.” He slips it into his shirt pocket.
I take my foot off the brake. “Wait—who gave that to you?”
He adjusts the rearview mirror and stares at himself. “Grandma gave it to me. Relax, I didn’t rob anyone—if that’s what you’re thinking.” He tucks a black strand of hair behind his ear. It falls right back over his nose.
The engine stalls.
“Oh, come on.”
He cranes his neck toward the dashboard. “You sure we’ve got gas? Or are we gonna end up stranded?”
“Relax. Not today.”
I turn the key—the starter spins fine, engine coughs, then dies.
Marco opens his door and steps out. “I literally just asked you that.” He slams the door shut. “‘Relax. Not today,’” he says, mocking me in falsetto. He spins around and punches the hood—thud. “We’ll walk. It’s not far.”
I leave the car on the roadside and follow him. His pace is quicker—he walks ahead, kicks a beer can that clinks perfectly into a trash bin.
“Wait up. I don’t have legs like yours.”
My son jumps and slaps the yellow sign with the blue ‘PT’ letters. “Quit whining and walk faster.”
We walk under the glow of a streetlamp. Marco stretches his leg to step over a raised tile in the sidewalk. A black dog suddenly barks and throws itself at the gate—I jump back a little.
“Damn mutt! Trying to give me a heart attack?”
In the window beside us, the blinds half-closed and the curtains drawn open, two women are shouting at each other; the shorter one is waving some kind of tool in her hand.
A Fiesta zips by, honks, slams the brakes—tires screech—and the reverse lights flash on.
“What’s this guy want?”
The car backs up, pulls up beside us, and the window rolls down. “Ezio! What are you doing out this late—and on foot, no less?” says Fabrizio.
Who’s driving? I don’t even know the guy. “What the hell do you care?”
Fabrizio knocks three times on the door—thud, thud, thud. “Come on, hop in. We’ll give you a ride.”
“No, we’re fine.”
Marco steps closer, leans down to look inside the car. “We could get a lift to the pizzer—”
“No! I said we’re fine.”
The Ford screeches off. I breathe in the exhaust and cough.
Marco steps in front of me. “Why didn’t you take the ride? I’m starving.” He kicks the metal shutter. “Sometimes I just don’t get you.”
The noise startles a pair of mice—they scurry under a nearby Fiat 500.
We walk under an arcade, and I pinch my nose shut—the place reeks of piss.
Two guys are sitting on the front steps of a building; one has a piercing on his right cheekbone and a cigarette wedged between his teeth. He pulls it out with his fingers and offers it to Marco.
Three empty beer bottles sit at their feet.
“We’re here, Dad.”
“Alright, but I’m paying you back tomorrow.”
We step inside—the smell of gorgonzola hits me. A waiter rushes by with two pizzas loaded with prosciutto and mushrooms, along with two big pitchers of lager.
Shit. She’s here. “Let’s go.”
The wooden ceiling beams are marked with deep cracks.
A girl in a black blouse approaches, top unbuttoned enough to reveal a birthmark shaped like a ‘Z’ just below her collarbone. “Do you have a reservation?”
Marco checks her out from head to toe, then grins. “Nope, we just kind of wandered in.” He turns to me. “Why do you want to leave? Something wrong?”
The walls are covered with flags split diagonally: turquoise in the upper left, mustard yellow in the bottom right, with a coral-colored star in the center.
“You guys fans of Sansevieria?”
The girl beams, flashing perfect white teeth. “How’d you guess?”
“Because on the wa—”
Marco elbows me. “Can’t you tell she’s messing with you?” he whispers.
The waitress turns away, scans the dining room. “Sorry, we’re fully booked tonight.”
Even better. “Let’s go somewhere else.”
At the far end, under the big window, two fingers poke into the air. The girl darts over, tucks her hair behind her ear.
The place fills with noise—kids running between tables, shouting and laughing.
The waitress hurries back to us. “You’re invited to that table over there.” She points.
Now what? “No, tell them we don’t want to intrude.”
Marco tugs on my arm. “Dad, let’s eat.” He’s already heading to the back of the room.
When he gets like this, he’s worse than his mother. I follow reluctantly, stopping just in time to avoid colliding with a girl running by, cheering.
I reach the table and give a small nod. “Hi, Emma.”
And the mannequin sitting with her—who the hell is that? Her partner, maybe?
Emma’s wearing a black dress with a low neckline.
She extends her hand. “You remembered my name.” She twirls a glass of white wine between her fingers with effortless grace.
I freeze like a block of ice. Snap out of it, shake her hand.
“It’s my superpower. I never forget names. I should apologize—”
“Not the time,” she says, pulling a chair out from the table for me. “This is Daniele, general secretary of Sansevieria.”
“Hi, I’m Ezio, and this is my son, Marco.”
Daniele half-stands, and I wave him off. “Stay seated.”
The man wets his lips with his beer. “We were just talking about you.” He wipes his mustache with his sleeve.
Emma leans back in her chair. “What are you ordering? Consider this our treat.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but—”
She touches my arm lightly. “It’s just a work dinner—on the club’s tab.” She bites her right cheek. “Go on, Daniele.”
“I was saying, we can’t keep running things with this kind of anarchic approach. There’s no room for improvisation. The system has to be followed to the letter.”
I let out a short laugh. “Sorry, go on.”
Emma spears a green olive with a toothpick. “You don’t agree with him?”
“Soccer is a game. First and foremost, kids should enjoy it. If you take away their freedom to express themselves, they get bored. And when they’re bored, they stop playing.”
The executive narrows his eyes. “Enjoy themselves? This isn’t a backyard kickabout. Our job is to develop players.”
“Your job is lining your pockets and driving around in a sports car.”
Daniele grips his wine glass. “That too, yeah!”
“Have you ever even played a match? Or just watched from the stands—or worse, on TV?”
Emma sets the toothpick down on her napkin. “Emilio stepped down from coaching the Under-19s.”
The table next to us erupts, shouting to be heard over a Vasco song blaring from the speakers.
Emma grabs a pizza square. A green olive clings to a stretch of melted cheese, swinging from her lips. “We need a coach.” She snatches the olive with her fingers and pops it in her mouth, twisting the mozzarella around with her tongue. “I know the season’s nearly over.”
The warmth from the oven reaches us, and sweat begins to bead on my forehead.
“I’ll do it—but don’t expect me to only play the top scorers. On my team, everyone plays.”
The waitress arrives and hands us the menus.
“A capricciosa and a beer,” I say.
Marco scratches his head. “Same for me.”
“No—capricciosa and a cola for him.”
Emma rests her elbows on the table. “No, you don’t have the experience.”
Marco kicks me under the table.
“I’m the right person. Trust me.” I stand up. “Excuse me—where’s the bathroom?”
Daniele turns. “Back there, just past the register. I’ll show you.”
“No, no need.” A waitress approaches, five foaming beer mugs spilling over onto her tray. I step aside to let her pass.
“I need to go too,” he says, walking off.
I head toward the restroom, passing in front of the oven. I wait my turn. The pizza maker, face flushed, flips pies and sets down the round peel to grab two dough balls.
Daniele walks out, turns on the faucet to wash his hands. The toilet flush drowns out a whisper behind the door. I walk in to pee.
“Ezio,” he says. “You need to turn down that position.”
“Sorry—what did you say?”
He shuts off the tap and grabs three paper towels. “We don’t want you coaching our team. Stop pushing.” He checks himself in the mirror, fixing his hair.
“And what if I get the job?”
He steps on the pedal of the trash can—it pops open. “One phone call and Luigi’s out of the clinic.” He tosses the wet paper inside.
“You can’t do that. Not now—not when he’s finally getting better.”
He opens the door. “That’s up to you.”
“I have another son. I have to think about him too. He matters.”
“Make your choice.” He lets the door slam shut behind him.
I follow. We walk past the oven—its white walls glow with heat.
Back at the table, Emma’s reapplying her lipstick.
“I’ll try to propose it to the board.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve changed my mind. I’m not the right person to coach the kids.”
Marco stands. “I’m out of here.” He walks fast between the tables, bumps into a woman, and keeps going without turning around.
“Excuse me.” I glance at Daniele. “I’m going too.”
He bites into a slice of pizza, a smile spreading across his cheeks.
I catch up to Marco. “What’s wrong?” I grab his shoulder to stop him.
He shrugs me off. “Why’d you change your mind?”
“You know why.”
“No, I don’t! Tell me.”
I lean back against the side of the building, pushing the tears back down.
The moon reflects off a nearby window. A dog lifts its leg on the tire of a maroon SUV.
“Did you forget your brother? If you did, that’s on me. That’s why your mom left—and why she’s with someone else now.” Tears streak down my face. “I tore our family apart.”
Marco tenses, jaw clenched. “It’s true. You messed up. You were a shitty dad and a lousy husband.”
Then his shoulders drop. “So, how do you plan on making it right?”
“I’ll handle that. But you—you stay away from those lowlifes from earlier.”
Marco tightens his belt a notch. “I don’t get it. What are you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
Please note: I'm not a native English speaker. If you spot any mistakes or have suggestions, feel free to email me at p.rubiu@tiscali.it