The Art of Starting Over

Chapter 3 - Flats It Is

"Il-aħwa, how hungry you were. Mela, you didn't eat anything today? Do you want some more?" Millie urges as I scoop up the last drops of soup from my plate.

"No thanks, Nann, I'm full." Her smile falters so I add, "But it was lovely!"

Typical Maltese nanna. She loves to cook, loves to eat, and more importantly, she loves to cook for people who love to eat. 

Millie fills the sink with soap and water, gently humming to the old Maltese tune coming from the radio. She just turned sixty-two, but I'll be damned if she looks a day older than fifty-five. She's a tiny woman with a pretty face and blond hair. Well, Ramona, the local hairstylist, helps her with that. She keeps it cut just a little above the shoulders and pulled back with bobby pins. She has flawless, peachy skin, a feat Sosa envies and compliments her on every time she comes over. But more than that, the woman oozes confidence and warmth. There is a glow about her which makes me wonder whether she knows something the rest of us don't.

"So, Paceville on a Friday?" she muses inspecting the plate in her hands for any remaining scraps of food.

"Sosa needs a Rebound Night."

I don't need to elaborate any more than that. If she heard our stories once, she's heard them a thousand times. Because our Rebound Night is not about finding someone new to get over an ex. On the contrary, the goal is to remember that you don't need a man to be happy. It's a celebration of girl power and flaunting what your mama gave you.

Sound dramatic? It is! But, it's fun.

Millie sighs. "There's always something going on with that girl, isn't there? It's like she can never settle down."

"She'll be alright, Nann, she's strong," I assure her, getting up to help her dry the dishes and put them back in their place.

#

Wrapped in a large towel, I stare at the open wardrobe, already regretting my decision to go out. I reluctantly slip into a tight, red mini-dress and throw a sleeveless, denim vest over my shoulders. I twist my hair up into a messy bun again. There's no point in washing it. By the end of the night, it will smell like a smoker's moustache anyway. I apply my favourite red, matte lipstick and return to my wardrobe, this time scanning through my small range of shamefully expensive heels.

Ugh. Not tonight boys.

I close the wardrobe and dig out a pair of brown, flat sandals from under my bed.

Please, forgive me.

I snap a picture of my feet and send the message to Sosa. As expected, she replies within seconds.

Pls don't tell me you're wearing slacks and a t-shirt!!!!

I smile to myself. The girl knows me too well. I take a selfie in the mirror, shaping my lips into a pout. My phone buzzes again.

Oh! You look hawt!!! Flats it is.

Great. Let the show begin.

#

An hour and half a bottle of vodka later, Sosa and I are in a smoky bar having a heated discussion over the loud music.

"Are you serious?" my best friend exclaims, eyes wide open and both arms raised above her head. "How can you not like pastizzi? You've been in Malta for over four years. You have Maltese blood coursing through your veins and you're telling me you do not have an instant orgasm just thinking about the golden, divine, crispy goodness with that soft, velvety interior?"

I almost spit a mouthful of vodka orange in her face. "Ew, Sos, that is disgusting!"

"What about tal-irkotta?" she prompts without batting an eye.

"Ricotta? Well, I guess I prefer them to pea cakes, but no. I cannot say they trigger an instant... uh... orgasm."

"Qow maj Godd," she says, pulling at her face. "I do not understand you, woman!"

I roll my eyes, secretly wishing I could get that excited about anything or anyone.

Tipsy as she is, Sosa notices my dip in spirit, so she announces, "Okay, drink up! You need to get me on the dance floor before I start going on about Derek."

Ah, yes. Derek.

I take a look around. The bar is full of pre-party drinkers but everyone seems to be absorbed in their own conversation. The music is loud, providing the perfect cover for the outburst that's bound to happen so, since she brought him up, I decide we might as well get it out of the way.

"So, what happened exactly?" I ask casually.

Sosa gives me a familiar don't go there look.

"No, you have to get this out of your system," I insist. "Otherwise, you'll start screaming at the first guy who tries to dance with you tonight." Which is practically inevitable considering the figure-hugging, cleavage-baring dress she's wearing.

"What? I will not!" But an evil grin spreads over her face at my knowing look.

"You're an aggressive drunk," I tell her with all the love in my heart. "Remember when we went out after you got into an argument with your dad and that poor bloke got you a drink? What was his name?"

"Joey something..."

"Whatever. You started yelling in his face so loudly that security thought he and his mates were trying something funny and they all got kicked out of the club."

Minutes later, she started crying uncontrollably in the middle of the dance floor and vomited all over my new shirt. But there's no reason to bring that up. Judging from the way she's visibly shrinking in front of me, I think the memory is just as fresh in her mind as it is in mine.

"Okay. You're right." She puts down her cup and pours herself another drink, two-part vodka, one-part orange juice. "Mela, we didn't have anything planned yesterday but at about seven in the evening the douchebag texts me asking if I'd like to meet up." Pausing for effect, she takes a long drag out of her neon pink straw and grimaces at the strong drink. "He was outside the house about half an hour later. I climbed into the car and waited for him to drive off, but he didn't move. He just looked at me, hekk, nervously, and I realised something was wrong, hux! Then he just blurted it out." She lifts her right hand in front of her face, the pads of her fingers and thumb touching, and pretends to talk through it like a sock puppet. "I don't think we should date anymore," she mimics in a whiny voice that sounds nothing like Derek's dry tone.

She rolls her eyes and, ditching the straw, chugs down the rest of her drink. I pour the remaining vodka into my cup before she can down that too. Her eyes are already slightly manic and out of focus. "Did you ask why?" I press.

"Mhux ovvja li I did!" she yells exasperated. "He said that we're moving too fast and that he isn't looking for anything serious and that he doesn't want me to get attached, blah, blah, blah... I mean, come on!" She picks up the vodka bottle and realising it is empty, slams it back on the table. "Me? Get attached? How dare he say that? He may be the closest thing to perfection I've ever dated... But still! Who does he think he is? He could find a decent excuse, but noooo. He made it about me. Like it's my fault. Like he's doing me a favour. What an asshole!" She points a finger dangerously at me and lowers her voice. "I am done with men. I will be celibate. Just like you, Ally. I'm just going to work and dance and go to the beach and if anyone, ANYONE," her voice rises three octaves, "ever tries to get in the way of that again, they can just go f-"

"OKAY!" I stop her right there. People have been staring since she announced that I was celibate. "I think that's enough getting Derek out of our system for tonight. Let's go dance!"