"The basket just arrived for you. We checked it thoroughly. It's safe." He sets it on my desk with care. "From Marcello."
"What?"
"Santino Marcello sent it. About ten minutes ago." Alessandro looks faintly amused. "Should I leave you to open it in private?"
"Yes. Please."
He leaves, closing the door softly behind him.
I stare at the basket like it might explode. It's elegant and expensive-looking, the kind of thing you'd see at a high-end picnic in the Italian countryside.
I pull off the lid with trembling hands. Inside is a perfectly cooked steak from Marconi’s, still warm, the smell making my mouth water. Twenty-four ounces, medium-rare, exactly like the one from Marconi's that first night.
Next to the steak are four desserts arranged beautifully. Tiramisu. Cannoli. Chocolate torte. Panna cotta. The exact desserts I ordered for Santino, then ate them all myself.
A whole bottle of expensive cognac and a crystal glass that catches the light.
Silverware wrapped in a linen napkin.
Everything from our first date. The date where I ate nothing but lettuce while he enjoyed this exact meal.
And then—I see it.
A small photo frame. Silver. Elegant. Museum-quality.
Inside the frame is a professional photograph of a white plate with two pieces of plain lettuce.
Just lettuce. Nothing else. Artfully photographed.
And underneath, a small engraved plaque: "In memory of the salad."
I laugh. I can't help it. I actually laugh out loud, the sound echoing in my office.
It's absurd. Ridiculous. Completely insane.
And it's absolutely perfect.
There's a card tucked beside the frame. I open it with shaking fingers.
"No lettuce. You should eat a real meal this time. -S"
I sink into my chair, still staring at everything.
He remembered everything. He remembered the stupid lettuce. The way I kept trading him bites of steak for pieces of salad. He remembered the desserts we shared, or rather I ate.
He remembered all of it.
Is he apologizing? Making a joke? Trying to make me smile?
I don't know what this means.
I eat the steak slowly, savoring every bite. All of it.
Then all four desserts, one after another. When I’m finished, I pour myself a glass of the cognac and sit there, staring at the framed lettuce photo.
What is he doing?
Later that night, I fall asleep when the same question on my mind.
