(no subject)
When Marge lost Dickie, Peter hadn't been able to truly comprehend the loss. Perhaps a part of his mind had touted that he had never been a truly faithful man, but Marge still loved the man because everyone loved Dickie Greenleaf. Especially Tom. And Peter had loved Tom, to his own dismay.
Peter had also loved Lionel, but Lionel merely left. He didn't die, didn't litter a lido or a sea or the streets of Rome with a body. He simply vanished and disappeared to go home to a better life.
Now, Peter wishes he had Marge. She would know what to do to quench this seemingly endless heartbreak. Dickie would most likely drink and sing away the pain, Freddie would no doubt attempt to fuck it into happy submission, but Marge would simply know. Peter supposes he has his own manner of dealing and so instead of drinking or fucking or fighting, he turns to something slightly more cultured. After the evening shift has departed the kitchen, Peter takes his turn. While the casserole basks in the heat of the oven and he tosses vinaigrette into a salad, he sets the table for six places.
It's not precisely Cortina, but it will do. His own sad little dinner party with invisible guests isn't exactly the saddest method of coping in the world, but it gets Peter through this day in particular when all he can think about is loss and grief and wondering how widows possibly ever go on when it would be so easy to simply stop.
Peter had also loved Lionel, but Lionel merely left. He didn't die, didn't litter a lido or a sea or the streets of Rome with a body. He simply vanished and disappeared to go home to a better life.
Now, Peter wishes he had Marge. She would know what to do to quench this seemingly endless heartbreak. Dickie would most likely drink and sing away the pain, Freddie would no doubt attempt to fuck it into happy submission, but Marge would simply know. Peter supposes he has his own manner of dealing and so instead of drinking or fucking or fighting, he turns to something slightly more cultured. After the evening shift has departed the kitchen, Peter takes his turn. While the casserole basks in the heat of the oven and he tosses vinaigrette into a salad, he sets the table for six places.
It's not precisely Cortina, but it will do. His own sad little dinner party with invisible guests isn't exactly the saddest method of coping in the world, but it gets Peter through this day in particular when all he can think about is loss and grief and wondering how widows possibly ever go on when it would be so easy to simply stop.