The tomatoes come out. Tony sets them down proudly. “Buon appetito,” he says. “Enjoy.” I pick up my fork, spear a tomato, and taste the most heavenly, sweetest, ripest, saltiest thing I’ve ever encountered. I swallow them, glorious and geranium red, along with my grief. I devour the plate, along with another basket of bread. Then the ravioli arrives—creamy and light, ricotta clouds. Delicious. I add the lemon, as instructed.
