There’s no manic energy in his words now, no brittle excitement. Just quiet longing and the kind of romantic devotion that poets write about. It’s harder to resist than his more intense moments, this soft vulnerability that makes me want to protect him from the world.
“You had other things to worry about at sixteen,” I say, thinking about what I now know of his family, the conversion therapy that was waiting for him.
“I worried about you too.” His smile is gentle, tinged with old sadness. “Whether you were eating properly, whether you were getting enough sleep. Whether anyone was taking care of you the way you deserved.”
The cigarette is halfway gone now, consumed in a comfortable rhythm. Ginni’s fingers brush my lips each time he gives it back, small points of contact that feel more intimate than they should.
“I studied everything about you,” he continues, his voice growing even softer. “Not just for this, but because I wanted to understand what made you happy. Your favorite foods, the authors you mentioned liking, the way your expression changed when you talked about music.”
“You remember all that?”
“I remember everything about you.” He takes the cigarette. “You mentioned loving Puccini once, just in passing, when someone asked about your record collection. I spent months learning everything I could about opera just so I could understand what moved you.”
The admission catches me off guard even though I don’t know why I’m surprised, he has already shown me the depths he has gone to in order to feed his obsession.
“You studied opera for me?”
“I wanted to know what you heard when you listened to La Bohème. What emotions it stirred in you.” His cheeks color slightly, as if he’s embarrassed by his own romanticism. “I thought maybe someday I’d be brave enough to sing for you.”
The image of teenage Ginni learning arias in secret, dreaming of serenading me, is so heartbreakingly sweet that I can barely stand it. All those years of silent devotion, all that careful study of my preferences and needs.
It’s flattering. Immensely so, and it would take a better man than me to resist the allure and not allow it to swell the ego.
“Do you still remember any of it?” I ask, surprised by how much I want to hear the answer.
“Every note.” His voice is barely above a whisper now. “Though I’m not sure I have the courage to prove it.”
“Sing for me now.”
The words escape before I can stop them, and I’m not sure who’s more surprised by the request. But something about this moment, this gentle intimacy, makes me want to hear the voice he’s been hiding all these years.
Ginni’s eyes widen, and for a moment he looks exactly like the shy sixteen-year-old he used to be. “You really want me to?”
“Please.”
He extinguishes the cigarette in the crystal ashtray with careful precision, buying himself time to gather courage. When he turns back to me, his expression is vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen before.
Then he begins to sing.
The first notes are tentative, barely audible, but as his confidence builds his voice grows stronger. It’s “O soave fanciulla” from La Bohème, Rodolfo’s love song to Mimi, and Ginni’s voice is absolutely beautiful. Pure and sweet with just enough roughness around the edges to make it interesting, to make it real.
He’s not performing for me. This isn’t the calculated seduction I expected. This is just Ginni, sharing something precious and fragile, offering up his heart in the form of Puccini’s most romantic aria.
The Italian flows from his lips like honey, every emotion carefully rendered. I can hear years of study in his technique, but more than that, I can hear years of love. This isn’t just a song he learned to impress me. This is his heart set to music.
When the last note fades into silence, we stare at each other across the small distance between us. The artificial sunlight from the projector catches in his eyes, making them shimmer with unshed tears.
“That was...” I start, then realize I don’t have words for what I just witnessed.
“I used to practice in the shower so no one would hear,” he says softly. “I dreamed about the day I’d finally be brave enough to sing it for you.”
“Your voice is incredible, Ginni. You could have been professional.”
He shakes his head, a self-deprecating smile crossing his features. “My family made it clear that wasn’t the kind of attention they wanted me to attract. Torrini men don’t sing opera. They don’t get noticed like that. They run businesses and make money, and if they are gay they hide it like it’s a shameful secret so they can protect their reputation.”
The casual way he delivers this devastating assessment of his family’s priorities makes my chest ache. How much talent has been suppressed, how many dreams crushed, in the name of maintaining their image?
“Their loss,” I say firmly. “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve heard in years.”
