Page 33 of Enzo

Gloria nods, but remains silent. Nobody utters a word. Not one word. After a few seconds, they turn to one another and speak among themselves.

The atmosphere at the table changes, it's slightly electric and off-kilter. Not so subdued and series.

Molly turns to me. “Are they all snooty?” she whispers.

“Pretty much,” I whisper back. “Sorry. I had no choice but to sit here.”

“It’s okay.” Her smile is endearing. She’s set her mask on the table, her clutch in her lap. A few strands of her chestnut hair have fallen around her face. “I expect every table here is filled with these types of people.”

These types of people.

She knows exactly what kind of people they are, and I suspect that she has an idea of how they perceive her, but she doesn’t care.

She loves the children she teaches, and it’s clear to see that she genuinely cares about them. The people sitting around this table, with all their money and influence, don’t impress her in the slightest.

Not an iota.

I like that about her.

“Oh! The menu. Yippee! At least I know what's coming.”

She picks up the printed card beside her place setting, and I suppress a grin. I love how excited she gets about food.

But her expression suddenly turns serious.

“It’s in Italian.”

“I can translate it.”

“I have Google.” She reaches for her clutch.

I turn the menu over.

She looks down.

“Oh.”

“The English version.” I suppress another grin.

“I knew that.”

“Of course you did.”

She studies the menu.

“So much food. I’m in heaven.”

I can only smile at her excitement. I never get that excited about food.

“Oh! Handmade pasta—” She leans towards me. “Why are there six forks?”

“One for every course.”

She stares at them at them for a few seconds. “That’s a whole lot of washing up.”

I laugh, because it’s funny. And six forks are absurd. I’ve just never considered that before.

“Why did it take you so long to go to the washroom?”