Tuesday, May 10, 2011

9- The (Pie) Distraction

Yames stopped talking to the waitress and began to leave the restaurant. Emilio stood up to follow when all of a sudden a smell more powerful than love itself hit him like an 18-wheeler crashing into a wall. All thoughts swiftly escaped from his mind and were replaced by the terrifyingly magnificent sounds of an orchestra playing Mozart's Symphony No. 40 in G minor. As the orchestra played, the aroma of a wonderful apple pie with hints of sweet nutmeg and cinnamon occupied the vast expanses of his empty mind.
I have to get that pie!
He raced to the cash register, beating most of the people that were hurrying to taste the same delicious baked goods. He stood in line, dazed as he recalled a memory from his childhood.

Mother stands by the sink, washing freshly picked, red, shining apples. I watch her patiently with eyes as large and shining as the apples themselves. After kneading the dough, slicing the apples and sprinkling the desired spices and ingredients on top, the pie is finally made and popped into our brick oven in the farmlands of Italy. I patiently wait at the table, letting the aroma dance lightly around my head and fill my nostrils. Finally the thing I have been waiting for is finally ready. My mother's mittened hands reach into the oven and pull out the steaming pie. She cuts me a slice and places the plate in front of me. Biting into the pie, my taste buds are sent on a roller coaster of happiness.

Emilio is tapped on the shoulder and shakes his head to return to reality. The sounds of forks clinking and light chatter once again fill his head and a darkly-dressed Asian man whispers, "I think you're up." Emilio looks in front of him into the inquisitive, smiling eyes of a young waitress. "What would you like sir?" she asks. "Ummm... an apple pie please?" he mumbles. She charges him for the pie and he receives his slice, carrying it and his mysterious box with him to a table in the back. Sitting down, he stares at the steaming, gooey, sweet slice of heaven in front of him.
Hello again. Long time no see.
He takes his fork, sighs deeply, and sinks the metal into his slice. Bringing the slice to his mouth, tears flow down his cheeks in joy. The Asian man who was behind him in line sits down at the same table as him, too engulfed in thoughts about his own slice of pie to notice the Italian silently weeping across from him. Emilio continues eating, allowing his mind to recall times in the past.
I have to complete my task. I MUST go back to Italy.
Looking out the window longingly he realizes that the power is out around town and he sees more people continuing to pour in the diner than he knew lived in the small town.