I look down.
The crumb remains on the black fabric near my hip, pale and incriminating.
“I had breakfast,” I say.
“You had breakfast on yourself.”
“I had excellent breakfast near myself, and some of it became ambitious.”
Sophie’s mouth curves. “Rome suits you.”
“Rome suits most people who respect carbohydrates.”
“True,” Sophie says. “Tell me everything.”
I glance at the paragraph on my laptop, then at her face on the phone. The Roman morning sits bright behind me, pressing through the balcony doors, warming the room by degrees. I could give her the easy version. The professional version. The one full of food and weather and hotel details, which are all true and none of them the thing Sophie has called to hear.
So I begin there.
“I had dinner at Osteria Santa Livia my first night,” I say.
“Small room. No drama. Zucchini blossoms, tonnarelli, lamb with bitter greens. The kitchen has actual discipline.”
Sophie props her chin on her hand.
“I’m listening.”
“No, you’re waiting.”
“I can multitask.”
“You’re incapable of not multitasking.”
“That’s why I’m successful,” Sophie says.
“Continue.”
“The pasta was the kind of simple that makes you angry at everyone who’s ever made it badly,” I say.
“The pepper was integrated into the sauce instead of scattered on top like an afterthought. The lamb was better than it needed to be.”
“Was there wine?”
“Frascati Superiore.”
“Did you approve?”
“I did.”
“Did you terrify anyone with your little notebook?”
“I mildly unsettled the server.”
Sophie smiles. “Good. Keeps the youth alert.”
“She was excellent.”
“Even better. I support competent women being mildly unsettled and then rewarded.”
