“It's been a year, when are you planning on finalizing the wedding date?” Mom asks Lydi.

We are in our home, visiting, to avoid mom's constant whining about how she's all alone all the time. Right away she started with Lydi's case.

“Mom… what's the difference? We're living in the same place, wearing rings.”

“Does anyone call you Mrs.Graque?” Mom counters.

"Eww. Not a cool name. Don't get married.” I interject.

Lydi tickles my side. “I’d like to be called Mrs. Graque. But mom, it's so much work. I don't have time for planning a wedding.”

"I don't want to wear a suit.” I say just to irritate mom.

"He isn't wearing the turtle neck I bought for him Lydi. It's so good. But he wouldn't even try it.” Mom changes her target.

"Why Erin?”

"It's scratchy.”

“It's not. You roam in this cold without a jacket. You need good sweaters. If Lydi bought that same shirt, you'd wear it.” Mom says, trying to guilt me.

I groan. "Stop, mom. Buy something soft. I'll wear."

Just like that I remember shopping with Sam. How he wanted to buy his suit to my liking. His reason for doing so. I didn't know I wanted that kind of attention.

“Why are you smiling?” Mom asks.

"Will you wear a dress I choose?" I turn her into a target, well, her mistake, she asked for it.

“You don't know my size."

“Come on mom. I'll select a dress in your size. What's your size?”

"Six.” Lydi says.

"Six, okay, if I select a size six dress, will you wear it?”

“Of course, why not?” Mom asks.

"To Lydi's wedding.” I finish.

"That's not fair.” Mom loses her excitement.

“Why?”

"It's an important event, I can't go wearing some color that doesn't suit me.”

My smile widens. "What about you Lydi?"

“I'm not playing this game." She's smart.

“Why do you want to choose our dresses?” Mom asks.

"It was a test. You both failed. I'm going home.” I stand up.

“Why is he like this? I'll wear anything you want. Come back here! Erin!” Mom shouts.

I wave and take my stick.

As I walk back to my apartment, I think about Sam. Our date at Kelly's. I did buy him a silk briefs few months back. It's in my closet. I'm sure he will wear it even if it doesn't fit and probably make up a dirty game out of it.

Like how he made a sex game out of eating pasta that night.

“What’s your favorite shape of pasta?” He asked.

“What does it matter? It's the sauce and stuffing that makes it interesting.” I said.

He snorted. "Tell me your favorite. I'll tell something private about you. Which no one knows.”

“Like a psychic?” I took his hand.

"Better than that." He unfurled my fingers and traced my palm.

“Okay. Ravioli." My voice had gone down. His touch did that to me. He could trace my palm all day everyday, and I'd be the happiest person alive.

“Ahh.. Erin my dear, you love pillow talk. After sex, you like to chat with your partner.”

I was stunned. "How did you come to that conclusion from ravioli?”

"Am I right?” He was smug. His smile was plastered on his tone.

“Yes. But how?" I grabbed his fingers.

“That's the pastalogy. I'm an expert."

I huffed. “What's your favorite?

"I've many. Orecchiette, Strozzapreti, Fusilli.”

"I haven't even heard of them! What do they tell about you?”

"If Orecchiette is your favorite, it means," his breath hit my ear, his scent enticed me, “You like to suck ears.” He licked mine.

I jumped in surprise making him roar with laughter.

On the walk back from restaurant he made a game of it.

“Guess what Strozzapreti is for.” He challenged.

“What's its shape?”

“Mm.. It is like a sheet folded on both ends on opposite sides. Like a rolled towel.”

"You like cuddling." I guessed.

“Nope, nothing PG."

Rolled towel. I couldn't think of anything related to sex with rolled towel.

“Sex in shower?”

"Nope. A clue, since you're a beginner. In italian it means priest chokers.” His shoulder brushed mine. I swallowed hard. I wanted to put my hand around his waist, bring him closer, smell him. I knew he wouldn't mind. But I couldn't bring myself to do it.

“Erin? You there?" He nudged.

“You like to choke on dicks.” I said.

He pulled my head down and gave a noisy kiss on my cheek. "Well done.”

I stopped resisting my temptation and wrapped his waist in strong grip, and smelled him. He melted in my embrace. Letting me take what I want.

Thinking about it makes me yearn for Sam. It's been a year. I haven't been able to get over him. There is no point. He is the one. Like dad was for mom. It's been six years since dad's death, still she can't think of anyone else.

“I have the memories." She says.

I too have them. It may not be many like hers, but they are as meaningful as hers. And more importantly Sam is alive. I still have a chance to create more memories. Maybe not right away. But there's a chance. That's good enough for me.