Sympathy Spaghetti (1/?)sursum_ursaDecember 23 2011, 15:51:49 UTC
It's January. It's really, really cold. There is snow, there is ice, and the world outside the window of Angelo's is practically bereft of people. (For that matter, he only has four customers.)
Those who had ventured out into the frigid night wore expressions of grim determination; their bodies hunched to keep out the cold, their figures obscured by layer upon layer of warm clothing.
This grim determination was absent from the eyes of the woman whose order Angelo was currently attempting to take.
Her face was the very picture of misery, and Angelo was not sure whether to hug her, pat her on the head, or ignore her obvious pain and concentrate on serving her.
But he has always been a sucker for a damsel in distress.
'You look...sad.' he ventured, and she gave him a shaky smile which would melt the heart of the snowman outside. But the forms must be observed. 'What can I get you?'
Molly sniffed, and cleared her throat. 'Umm...' her menu is untouched. 'I don't know.'
'I tell you what. How about some of my sympathy spaghetti. My mamma made it for me when I was sad. I make it now for my sister and my niece and my two nephews. It's the best thing for a sad face.'
The woman offered him a smile.
Right, time to turn on the charm.
'I'm Angelo.' 'Molly Hooper.' 'I'll be right back, Molly Hooper. Don't go anywhere.'
A complimentary glass of wine and Angelo's famous sympathy spaghetti later, and Molly's tongue was somewhat loosened. Angelo ignored his niece sweeping up around them, and sat down to listen to Molly's woes.
The party of three who made up the rest of Angelo's customers departed some time ago. The candles have burned down, Angelo has indulged in some of the house red himself, and Molly is complaining.
'He's just so mean. All the time.' The spaghetti has cheered her up a bit, but now her choices are thrown into stark relief, and frankly her life is looking a bit rubbish.
Angelo practices his best sympathetic place, and says nothing. Men. They are all the same. Especially English men, who are frankly terrible without alcohol as a crutch. A few well-chosen compliments later and she looked somewhat cheered.
'Come back any time, Molly Hooper. Any time you need spaghetti.'
The smile she gave him was now warm enough to melt chocolate.
Those who had ventured out into the frigid night wore expressions of grim determination; their bodies hunched to keep out the cold, their figures obscured by layer upon layer of warm clothing.
This grim determination was absent from the eyes of the woman whose order Angelo was currently attempting to take.
Her face was the very picture of misery, and Angelo was not sure whether to hug her, pat her on the head, or ignore her obvious pain and concentrate on serving her.
But he has always been a sucker for a damsel in distress.
'You look...sad.' he ventured, and she gave him a shaky smile which would melt the heart of the snowman outside. But the forms must be observed. 'What can I get you?'
Molly sniffed, and cleared her throat. 'Umm...' her menu is untouched. 'I don't know.'
'I tell you what. How about some of my sympathy spaghetti. My mamma made it for me when I was sad. I make it now for my sister and my niece and my two nephews. It's the best thing for a sad face.'
The woman offered him a smile.
Right, time to turn on the charm.
'I'm Angelo.'
'Molly Hooper.'
'I'll be right back, Molly Hooper. Don't go anywhere.'
A complimentary glass of wine and Angelo's famous sympathy spaghetti later, and Molly's tongue was somewhat loosened. Angelo ignored his niece sweeping up around them, and sat down to listen to Molly's woes.
The party of three who made up the rest of Angelo's customers departed some time ago. The candles have burned down, Angelo has indulged in some of the house red himself, and Molly is complaining.
'He's just so mean. All the time.' The spaghetti has cheered her up a bit, but now her choices are thrown into stark relief, and frankly her life is looking a bit rubbish.
Angelo practices his best sympathetic place, and says nothing. Men. They are all the same. Especially English men, who are frankly terrible without alcohol as a crutch. A few well-chosen compliments later and she looked somewhat cheered.
'Come back any time, Molly Hooper. Any time you need spaghetti.'
The smile she gave him was now warm enough to melt chocolate.
He wondered how much warmer he could make it.
He was looking forward to finding out.
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