I lean towards her as she retrieves silverware out of a drawer near me and give her a light kiss on the lips. “No, but thanks.”
She shrugs her shoulders, accustomed to my cold nature, and sets the table, examining the label on the wine on the table before opening it to let it breathe.
“Good year for Chianti,” she remarks.
“Hmm, yes it was,” I mutter absently, as I recall retrieving it from the wine cellar yesterday and remember that this particular bottle should air for three hours.
Shit.
This is one of those instances where a tiny bit of planning would have been nice. Now, I will be drinking an expensive wine when it’s not at its peak.
I fill our plates with food and apologize for the lack of appetizers as we sit across from each other at the kitchen table. The dining room is too formal for anything less than six or more people.
I think I like eating in the kitchen because it reminds me of visiting Grandpa growing up and how Grandma would spend the day over the stove, and making pasta from scratch using a pasta machine with a crank handle. She did all the dishes by hand too, even though they had a dishwasher.
We eat in relative silence, making light conversation when it’s warranted. When we finish, I whisk the plates away, soaking them in a sink full of dishwater.
“Let me help,” she offers.
“No, you’re my guest, but I really need to get back to work.”
Her face falls in disappointment, which lets me know that she anticipated more. Of course, she wants more.
It’s just for a few seconds, then she recovers her look of indifference that she knows must retain in order to keep seeing me. But it was a few seconds too many.
I know she will be hurt when I no longer call.
6
Juliet
Ilove the energetic vibe of living in Florence. Not to say that I don’t love relaxing at home in the country, but I prefer city life. I never would have been happy had I stayed at home and not struck out on my own.
I’m over living in the dorms, but at the same time, the cost of living is high and I don’t know how I can afford to get an apartment.
Obviously, I’d have to share it with someone and get a job, which would suck. I have loads of experience waitressing, and with all the tourists, I’d easily find a job. But I’m stubborn. I don’t want to take time away from my art.
I work until my wrists are sore and my tired eyes are just slits, making tiny strokes with my charcoal pencil as I work on yet another project. My sketch pad is filling up and to me that’s success. I live, eat, and breathe art, and walking around Florence, where it’s embedded in every aspect of our life, is amazing.
The night rain brings humidity and I turn on the small unit that gives us cold air to make the small dorm bearable. Hotels here usually have power to the air connected to the light switch and the temperature gauges locked under a plexiglass cover because electricity is so expensive, but thankfully, our university hasn’t caught on to that idea yet. I know it’s coming. Until then, I’ll enjoy the coldest room I can get.
I sigh, unable to get the face right on the sketch I’m working on. It’s so much easier getting the angles of the jawline right when I have a picture to follow. I’m not good at imagining faces and drawing them.
I finish penciling in the outline and Ava walks over, fresh out of the shower with her hair up in a towel.
“Whoa, that’s the dude from yesterday. Mr. Sexy Eyes.”
“What?”
“Remember the hottie standing next to the dean yesterday? That’s him,” she squeals. “I think you have a crush.”
“Thuff.” I make a disapproving sound that tells her just how I feel about that. “No way,” I point to the guy on my desk. “That’s not him.”
She snickers.
I examine the sketch again.
“Fuck.”