Of the walk home alone at night? Of the risk of food poisoning? Of Marco, and time spent alone, just the two of them?
Reappearing at her side, Marco took her equipment, quickly stashing it in the office. ‘Ready?’
‘Ho una fame da lupo!’ She howled up at the night sky, playing off the expression to be as hungry as a wolf.
‘Don’t you mean,da lupa?’ He stressed the final-a, winking at the sign above the bar.
‘Ugh! Such a dad joke.’
‘A what?’
Stella pulled at his sleeve. ‘Just walk, Luna.’
A quiet little restaurant a few streets west of Piazza Navona – hidden enough from tourists, and known well enough by locals to have a good reputation – was settled on.
The restaurant was lit predominantly by tea lights dotted across the tables, helped by a few larger candles propped up on the exposed ceiling beams. Wrapped around the beams in tight twists were rows of fairy lights, delicate and sweet. It made for a warm and comforting atmosphere, and both felt right at home.
‘This is so beautiful,’ she whispered to Marco under her breath as the waiter showed them to their window-adjacent table.
Noting how the candlelight darted across her face, illuminating her dark brown eyes, Marco nodded, trying not to stare.
Stella’s attention was completely focused on her menu. Head bowed, her fringe and hair fell perfectly around her face, the tip of her nose and chin just visible. Her lower lip puckered to the left, and Marco watched as she nibbled on it while she read. He knew that she was concentrating, as he had seen her do this many times while painting.
Stella’s finger traced a path up and down the options a number of times, then she looked up. ‘I’m thinking I’ll go thecarbonara. You?’
‘Scusami.’ He had been so busy studying her that her words had simply washed over him.
‘What’s going on with you?’ she asked, showing her concern with a tender caress of his forearm. ‘You don’t seem yourself. Is everything alright?’
Unable to express how he really felt – which was lost in a hopeless tangle of unhelpful romantic thoughts and self-consciousness – Marco could only reply, ‘Sì. I am just tired.Tranquilla. But it’s very kind of you to notice.’ He smiled as she pulled her hand away.
‘Well, let’s not make it too late then, ok?’
‘Ok.’ His heart plummeted. He wanted to stay there all night, basking in the glow of light and joy radiating across from her side of the table.
Stella ordered thecarbonaraand Marco thecacio e pepe,with both sharing a main ofsaltimbocca alla romanaand a side of punchypuntarelle. They devoured it all with gusto. Between mouthfuls and fork twirling, they finally had the time and space to talk and learn more about each other.
Marco, who had studied classical literature and philosophy at university, also spoke several languages – French, Spanish, English – and could read basic Latin. He was an avid reader, giving Stella lots of suggestions for the upcoming winter months. Although their tastes did vary – she preferred light-hearted reads with a romantic twist, whereas he preferred literary fiction with a strong social message – they agreed to start swapping books for future chats.
Marco learned about Stella’s academic and professional background in the galleries in Melbourne. They spoke at length about her upbringing in an Italian migrant family and how that shaped her identity and motivated her to pursue her language study. Marco learned that Stella, despite her incredible artistic talent, was incredibly humble about her work, and had considerable trouble with self-doubt. She had spoken briefly about her relationship with Andrew to explain her move to Rome, but given how her expression fizzled and her shoulders dropped, Marco understood there to be an unspoken link between Andrew’s character and her inability to trust in her abilities.
The conversation came to a natural pause. A moment to breathe.
Marco noticed for the first time how his warm cheeks ached from smiling, and caught himself mirroring Stella’s body language. Suddenly self-aware, he rearranged how his arms were folded on the table, but they felt foreign and disembodied in this orchestrated pose.
‘I really enjoy your company, you know that?’ Stella said, adjusting her napkin. ‘You’re a breath of fresh air, Marco Luna.’
Masked by the low lights and his manicured stubble, Marco was able to hide his rising blush. ‘Grazie.’ Butterflies formed in his stomach. ‘I feel the same.’
‘Well, that means we should spend more time together.Moreregularly. You’re new here in Rome. We work together. It just makes sense.’ As she finished, she gestured to the waiter to bring them two coffees. The waiter, fluent in coffee order sign language, nodded from across the restaurant. ‘It’s lovely to have a social life outside of my apartment.’ She finished her water. ‘I love Marcella, don’t get me wrong. But living with her can be exhausting at times.’
Marco didn’t know if he should ask, but curiosity got the better of him. ‘And . . . are you living with Vincent?’ The same unsettled sensation returned to his arms, and all he could do to appease the tension was to fold his hands under the table.
‘Yes. We are.’
Marco swallowed. ‘Tell me about him.’
‘Well, he’s a sports photographer turned sub-editor for one of the American papers. They have an office here in Rome. He’s thirty, like you, and new to Rome too. He’s got a good art eye. I like that. But he works long erratic hours, which is . . . frustrating.’ She paused for a moment before adding, ‘We’ve only just started seeing each other.’
