“More than sure. Trust me, it’s not a fallback.”
As we patiently await our turn, she leans back against my chest, and I wrap my arms around her waist, every now and then planting a kiss on her head and breathing in the scent of her hair. In reality, I couldn’t say whether kissing her is an excuse to smell her or smelling her is an excuse to kiss her. Probably both.
I watch the customers ahead of us leave clutching sandwiches that are bigger than they are, and I start to get a little worried. With food that heavy, I’ll sleep until next Wednesday.
“What can I get for this beautiful couple?” the man at the counter asks when it’s our turn.
“Schiacciata with crudo and burrata,” orders Elisa without hesitation. “Cut in half.”
He cuts a piece of bread the size of a double mattress and shouts “Look at that steam!” The flatbread emits a hot puff and a fresh-from-the-oven smell as it’s loaded with a monstrous amount of prosciutto and a whole burrata. “Look how much he’s pining for her! Have a good night, kids!”
As our monster sandwich cools down, we stroll to the river, where we lean on the parapet in the light of the Ponte Vecchio, to our right, projecting onto the Arno.
“How is it?” she asks after I take the first bite.
“It’s like a drug,” I groan, voraciously biting off another piece.
“You know, it would have been nice to see Pinchiorri’s cellar, but I must admit I’m much happier here, like this. Plus, look at that,” she says, pointing to the sky. “You’d have to go to space to have a starrier night.”
True, the evening is perfect, warm, and serene. It would have been a waste to dine indoors. “You’re right; this is even better.”
“Now let me say something that will shock you: I’ve never had a real romantic courtship in my life.”
“You’re joking.”
“Never.” She licks the burrata mustache from her lip. “When Linda was little, between studying, taking care of her, and the few hours of sleep I got, I didn’t have the energy to face an evening out. And by the time she got older ... let’s just say no one ever interested me enough to go on a romantic evening.”
“Really.”
“It only happened once with a boy I met in a plant pathology course; in the middle of our dinner, Giada called to tell me Linda had a rash and a fever. I rushed home to find my daughter with chickenpox, and I never heard from the boy again. Maybe I should have faked a colitis attack ...”
“I would like to say I’m sorry to hear it, but I’d be lying.”
“How selfish.”
“Indeed. If that date had ended happily, it would have been followed by a second, then a third, then you would have gotten emotionally involved to the point of marriage and more children, and then I wouldn’t be here with you now. I have your daughter and her timing to thank.”
“I’ll let her know.”
“So you haven’t had any relationships since then?”
“Nothing I’d call a relationship. And I certainly don’t have the energy to go ‘hunting’ for one now. The thought of putting on make-up and heels and dragging myself to the clubs every other night of the week is so demoralizing.”
I lift her up to sit on the stone parapet, my hands around her waist to keep her from falling backward. She takes off her heels and places them next to her. “Elisa, a single night out would be enough for you.”
“If all a girl has is her personality, she needs time to play all her cards.”
“You know very well that’s not the case for you,” I reply, resting my forehead against hers.
“Then what is the case?”
“Here’s how it would go: You go out with Giada for an aperitif; a group of men notices you ...”
“They notice Giada, you mean. She’s the beautiful one.”
“She may be beautiful, but you have all the charm.”
“Cad.”
