My shoulders relaxed.
Sorry about the mess you’re dealing with, I typed back.
It happens. The business I’m in. Sorting through it as we speak. Hope to get back to you soon, glikia mou.Winky Face. Followed by Winky Face With Tongue Hanging Out.
Ugh. Emojis. The flirt-bombs of online dating. Interpret them wrong and they could explode in your face. Ignore them and you could miss something substantial. Was there a sexual connotation to the tongue hanging out? What exactly was Nikos trying to say?
I’m hyperventilating because I think you’re so hot?
I want to lick you playfully?
I started replying, backtracked, then started over again. Five minutes later, I settled on the perfect response: a single Winky Face. By then, Nikos had signed off, but I was one click away from accessing his profile. All the answers to my questions about him just waiting to be discovered.
Instead, I googled CIA.
Central Intelligence Agency:The CIA collects, evaluates, and disseminates vital information on economic, military, political, scientific, and other developments abroad to safeguard the national security of the United States federal government.
Canadian Institute of Actuaries:The CIA is the national organization of the actuarial profession, dedicated to serving the public through the provision of actuarial services and advice of the highest quality.
Culinary Institute of America:The CIA is the world’s top culinary school. We offer Bachelor’s degrees in applied food studies, culinary science, food business management, hospitality management, and more.
Bingo.
I smiled. Alex really was trained at the CIA.
When I made my way to the sky deck that night, Alex was already there, gazing at the horizon. We were anchored off the shores of Naxos for the night. Between my hangover and my nap, I’d missed the chance to see the beautiful island.
I padded up beside him and rested my elbows on the railing. He said nothing, but his posture made a slight shift—the kind of reaction when someone’s presence affects you. We stood there in comfortable silence.
The sky was freckled with stars. Silhouettes of churches and Venetian castles stood against the moon-bleached valleys and mountains.
“Somewhere out there are farms that grow potatoes,” I said, remembering the scrumptious Naxian potatoes Alex served on the first night of the cruise.
Alex chuckled.
“What?” I prodded.
“I see the moon. Galaxies above us. The sea below us. Over there, I see the rain.” He pointed to a distant spot on the horizon. “I think of wet cobblestones, pigeons roosting under a statue in the plaza, a man hurrying home to his family—coffee in one hand, a wet umbrella in the other. You?” He angled his body toward me. “You think of potatoes.”
“So?”
“So.” He laughed. “I like it. I like that I can never tell what I’m going to get with you. I like that you’re weird and quirky, and you see things I don’t.”
“Thanks.” I gave him the side eye. “I think.”
We went back to gazing at the sea and the sky, and the trail of yellow lampposts that lined the roads like golden orbs in the night.
“Do you come up here every night?” I asked.
“Most nights, yes. I like to look at the lights. Somewhere out there is a mother who has fallen asleep next to her child. And there, in a smoky jazz bar, a couple on their first date—nervous, excited, still to kiss. Over there…” He pointed to one of the lights still burning in the hillside. “A man is leaving his wife in the morning. Next door, someone is putting together a crib for a new baby. You know what they have in common?”
I turned and caught his profile, his hair brushed away from his brow and tied loosely around his nape.
“What?” I asked. In another life, he could have been an admiral, a poet, a pirate.
“Food.” His gaze scanned the island. “They all pass each other in the same markets—the same bakers, the same winemakers. They gather in the town square for mezes and ice-cream, or just to watch the world go by. At weddings, they eat lamb. At funerals, they eatkoliva. Food binds them together. You see it no matter where you go. Friends, families, strangers—sharing a meal. Whether it’s in someone’s kitchen, a Michelin-starred restaurant in France, or a street stall in Vietnam.
“Every time you share a meal with someone, you bring your history, your country, your region, your religion, your tribe, your grandmother with you. You sit with your past, your opinions, your love, your curiosity, your resentments, your hospitality. Food is where we all intersect. Everywhere you go, anywhere you go.
