He doesn’t seem pleased. American friendliness doesn’t always extend to Boston, a city which considers itself practically European and considers brusqueness a valuable trait, so that people in restaurants can imagine they’re on the Right Bank in Paris and are being glared at by a tall, slender Frenchman who eyes their bright American clothes with sufficient contempt that they are compelled to give extra-large tips in order to convince him of their superior salary.
“What would you like to eat?” The waiter asks, his eyes flashing, his voice haughty. “Do you want to eat?”
I’ve never been to Europe.
This is terrifying.
“Of course he will eat,” Florian says. Then he leans closer to me. “I enjoyed the salmon, and Mama enjoyed the chicken piccata.”
“It is excellent,” Florian’s mother assures me, brightening.
“I’ll have the chicken piccata,” I say, even though I hate that Florian will probably insist on paying. I don’t like that I’ve made this more expensive for him. That wasn’t my intention at all.
“Florian looks much happier now,” Florian’s mother says.
Florian tenses and he widens the distance between us. “I am fine, Mama. Just stiff.”
“Oh, that explains why you were acting so strange! You’ve been in pain. I’m sorry, Florian.”
Of course, Florian has been in pain. He fell onto the ice.
Why didn’t I think of asking him about that?
“It is not too much pain,” Florian says.
“You were acting very strange.” Florian’s mother glances at her husband. “Don’t you think?”
“Very strange,” Florian’s father agrees.
“Isn’t it wonderful that your boyfriend is a massage therapist?” Florian’s mother continues.
Florian’s cheeks redden. He looks down at his plate.
I am exceedingly grateful when the waiter plops down the chicken piccata in front of me, even if I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.
I force myself to take a bite anyway. It’s delicious.
“This is excellent,” I say.
Florian’s mother nods absent-mindedly. “You must massage Florian tonight.”
“Well—” Florian looks down. “He doesn’t need to do that. He spent a day massaging people. He should rest.”
Florian’s mother’s eyebrows draw together.
“I am happy to massage you,” I say.
“It is your free time,” Florian says.
“I am sure Mateo will have plenty of time to relax,” Florian’s mother says. “I imagine he doesn’t want you to be in pain.”
“That’s true,” I say quickly.
Florian pouts. He leans back in his chair.
“Mateo is coming with you tonight anyway,” Florian’s mother says.
Florian stiffens.
